


something to earn

by goeasyvicar



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: During Canon, F/M, Post-Canon, once again i don't know what i'm doing, pride & prejudice & cold war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28820337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goeasyvicar/pseuds/goeasyvicar
Summary: Borgov smiled woefully at his shaking, disbelieving adversary and offered her his head on a silver platter in the shape of a black wooden king. He smiled as they rose from the table, smiled as she stepped into the spotlight, enveloped by the roaring of applause, including his own, smiled as the audience followed her to the door and praised her on the way. Despite the popular belief, he was never a machine, his heart wasn't made of metal plates, tiny lights and wires, and he could feel a certain sense of pride for the young woman warming him from the inside. But when the noise progressively subsided and a guard he'd never seen before ushered him to the car waiting at the back door of the building, Borgov didn't smile. He knew precisely where they were going, why they were going there and who wanted to meet him.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 92
Kudos: 109





	1. the russian aftermath (1968)

**Author's Note:**

> greetings from the garbage bin!   
> after two absolutely disastrous pieces of inexcusable fluff with no understanding of chess whatsoever, i've decided to give these two another try and... essentially just write the same goddamn thing but with more p&p undertones APPARENTLY. again, i have no excuse for cluttering the tag by livin' la vida loca. i don't by any means deserve little a self-indulgence as a treat but by god i'm gonna get it. however, if you're like me and will read just about anything with them in hopes of satisfying your insatiable hunger for meaningful glances across a room full of people, hop on into my clownmobile, it's very spacious.  
> some side notes:  
> \- i still don't know what i'm doing when it comes to chess, so if you do, please,,., don't.., be mad at me  
> \- even though this fic technically has nothing to do with my previous ones, i'm still fond of lesbian mrs borgova and not fond of cheating, so you can pry her from my cold dead hands  
> \- also i'm keeping the names i've given to mrs borgova and luchenko, i just think they're neat   
> \- also also i don't really know how i feel about starting to post something without already having it done and ready to publish but i'm gonna try my best to finish this one, even if it finishes me first 

A sudden strike. Captain Sviridov - or maybe he wasn't a captain anymore, who could say without the shoulder boards - was tall and lean but never seemed to be the kind of man to raise his hand at someone who clearly exceeded him by mass, even if their appearance was deceptive. Yet there was a certain nervousness to him, shortness of temper, the sort that would often bring him to a boil long before the suspect was ready to crumble under his threats, so although he usually only shouted until his whole face turned red, nobody in the room was surprised when he landed a solid punch to Borgov stomach, making the man fold in on himself and descend back into his chair. The pain was dull but spread quickly through his internal organs, preventing him from breathing in for several long seconds. Sviridov stayed in place, his already thin lips pressed into a disgruntled line and his nails going deeper into his palms.

_"Suka leningradskaya..."_ he spat out under his breath with a condescending sneer. "Do you think I have time to repeat myself to you lot? Do you think I have the fucking patience to shake my ass here for a fucking chess player?!"

Perhaps, the Albin Countergambit was the first thing that betrayed him in the eyes of the audience and commentators but for Borgov it started some nights before. Luchenko gradually egged him on by going over Harmon's previous games as the days of the tournament went by but now that he was sat comfortably among the spectators and smiled as the person he considered to be his best friend and most skilful opponent was slowly digging his own grave before the American prodigy's eyes, it was easy to wave at the ever-accelerating train of mistakes with his silky white flag. Vasily could've gotten mad at him, probably even should've, if only his brain hadn't been simmering in his own skull.  
She blundered momentarily, gave him a clear opportunity to advance, but he tripped over his own two feet taking her pawn on c4 down with him.  
Hell, was he really the one to judge? The same Vasily Borgov who stood up in the middle of his game to look at her board, be it out of commendation or cowardice? No, Lev was right the whole time: she really was a marvel.

"What makes you so important, hm? Tell me, comrade Borgov, maybe you know, because I really don't." Sviridov lowered himself on the edge of the table and crossed his arms expectantly but the desired response never followed, making him even more agitated. "The thing you fail to understand with that mighty head of yours is that I've got you right fucking here!" He shook his fist practically under Borgov's nose but the grandmaster's face remained as impassive as ever, save maybe for the phantom glassy casing over his eyes.

Pawn to h3. He hardly ever looked at her, that Elizabeth Harmon, with her hair so red that even under the dim sickly-yellow lights of the hall it dazzled him, but he lifted his eyes then, for a moment, mulling over his decision, practically chewing on the words in his mouth. She was going over the moves, unsurprisingly, studying the board, perhaps waiting for some grand recovery, but when he announced his adjournment, his voice a low grinding of the well-oiled mechanism somewhere in his throat, she looked up, seemingly stunned by the swift change of positions. She probably realised right then and there that she was going to win that game but he didn't see the lightbulb flashing above her and instead turned his head away, to the assistant already at his side with a pen and paper. He quickly jotted down the next move - queen to g6. He stood up, the sound of his chair moving echoing the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears. He walked away without saying another word, leaving Harmon and the audience equally shocked, after thirty-six moves. Luchenko hurried to the rescue of his friend, the pathetic little man that he was, as soon as it was possible.

"You have a family, right?" A simple question asked so uncharacteristically quietly for Sviridov finally attracted Borgov's attention but he was silent still. He had been threatened before, not once, so it wasn't the notion itself that unsettled him but rather the tone of his tormentor's voice, all calm and collected as if he already had a plan and was only waiting anxiously for a chance to follow through. "Yeah, you do." A supercilious grin spreading across the captain's face, he took Borgov by the shoulder and straightened him in his chair, then fixed his jacket mockingly. "A son, a wife... Mine's like a suitcase without a handle: hard to carry, shame to leave. Don't you ever get tired of your old woman? I've heard you take her everywhere you go."

"She's my interpreter," Vasily stated patiently, still waiting for the ball to drop and trying his best to suppress the urge to knock his teeth out. "My English isn't... great."

Sviridov clicked his tongue and slowly shook his head from side to side. "That's a pity. You'll have to work on that."

Pawn to d5. Borgov's whole body visibly twitched, his imprudence practically written all over his face. Their eyes locked for what felt like an eternity as if with a simple push of a button on the clock he had stopped time itself, and for a brief moment Beth seemed almost unsure of her strategy but then looked up and up and up, to the buzzing light above the board, to the old brick ceiling, piquing everyone's interest and making them look up with her. It was the most curious thing, and while the baffled spectators tried to make sense of the sight, he observed her. He didn't know, of course, what exactly she was seeing but with such determination, such focus, such fire in her eyes it could only be the broadcast of his own public execution. Bishop to c5.

"What do you mean?" He tried to keep his composure but Sviridov's eyes pierced right through him.

"I mean that if you don't cooperate and drag her over to our side, I'll personally tear you and your lovely little family from shred to fucking shred."

Queen to e8, then to c6, then back to e8. Blunder. A desperate retreat but not nearly as desperate as offering a draw, out loud, being of sound mind. Harmon shook her head delicately and moved her queen to f5, already victorious. The floor underneath his chair spread to the sides, split tile by tile, brick by brick, ready to swallow him and his pitiful king, but he moved it to h8 instead.

"You're a clever man, comrade Borgov, you know that people love her here and that they'll love you even more if you make her ours. I don't think you can take another punch, so don't make me repeat myself again."

Queen takes pawn on h3. He felt sick to his stomach. To stretch the game even further out when they both already knew the outcome would've meant making a complete and utter fool of himself but was it really that much of a difference? King to d2. Borgov smiled woefully at his shaking, disbelieving adversary and offered her his head on a silver platter in the shape of a black wooden king. He smiled as they rose from the table, smiled as she stepped into the spotlight, enveloped by the roaring of applause, including his own, smiled as the audience followed her to the door and praised her on the way. Despite the popular belief, he was never a machine, his heart wasn't made of metal plates, tiny lights and wires, and he could feel a certain sense of pride for the young woman warming him from the inside. But when the noise progressively subsided and a guard he'd never seen before ushered him to the car waiting at the back door of the building, Borgov didn't smile. He knew precisely where they were going, why they were going there and who wanted to meet him.

Sitting at the same table as the USSR's most recognised and accredited champions felt so surreal Beth had to stop herself from pinching the skin on her hand. She was still catching her breath when Luchenko - or Lev Borisovich as he insisted she called him, just the surname being too official for good friends he was so determined to become - invited her to their soiree. For a moment she even allowed herself to see it as a potential sabotage plan. After all, his unconventional appearance and sometimes behaviour notwithstanding, he was one of the most powerful players in the union, maybe even in the world, and he did, in fact, defeat Alekhine when he was a boy. But his disposition, towards anyone, really, but especially towards her, was so warm that she quickly dismissed the idea of the kind older gentleman wanting revenge. And rightfully so. As soon as they arrived at the restaurant, he made sure Beth was situated beside him so that nobody, accidentally or purposefully, would offer her anything she didn't want to have. He knew about her addiction, of course, he had to have known but not once mentioned it which made him higher in her eyes, even if it was just basic politeness. His voice was deep and soothing, and after a short while Beth stopped noticing his accent completely, rather consumed by the stories he told. By the time Borgov joined them, she felt entirely at home surrounded solely by foreign people who were supposed to despise her but chose to adore her instead. She wasn't quite expecting to see him, considering he didn't join them immediately after the final game, but was nevertheless excited to discuss their match, to finally talk to the man she feared and admired for so many years.

"Mr Borgov." She beamed, rosy-cheeked, not from the wine but rather from the company itself, and then added in Russian: "I'm so glad you could come."

Borgov nodded mannerly but didn't smile or even look at her and simply sat by Luchenko's other side. Beth knew from his initial reaction that he wasn't a sore loser but the familiar grimace did set her on edge a little bit.

"I apologise for making you wait, Leva." He spoke in Russian and kind of in a hushed tone, although, evident from the fact that the three of them sat close together, even closer than the rest of the group, he didn't try to hide his words from their most important guest. Perhaps, he even wanted her to hear them, as if to remind her of that time she made him wait before their game in Paris. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

"Is everything alright?" Luchenko's reciprocal question was decisively in English, mindful of the only American at the table.

"Yes," he replied plainly, still not confident enough in his knowledge of the language to make an effort to be more eloquent, with the kind of look in his eyes that would prevent anyone from further inquiries. Lev Borisovich knew that look quite well but with Miss Harmon joining them didn't want to make the wrong impression by ignoring him completely and so did everything in his power to engage his friend in the conversation there were having before he arrived. It wasn't often that he saw Vasily so ruffled but the reason was usually the same. Beth, however, had no idea, even though during the whole tournament she had a minder of her own. She just wasn't used to it yet.

"Please eat, Vasily." Luchenko started carefully but persistently placing various plates in front of the man. "You likely hadn't had a poppy's dewdrop since morning and we've ordered too much anyway."

"You with your Russian hospitality." Beth stepped in cautiously, still smiling faintly at the peculiar expression she'd never heard before neither in English nor in Russian.

Borgov looked up at her quizzically as if her simple remark was offensive to him and she shut up immediately, slightly confounded by the reaction. It wasn't her fault, he tried to reason with himself, none of this was her fault. Her only liability was that she was young and beautiful and charming and _new_. She wasn't the first ever woman to play chess, obviously, but her style, her unwillingness to conform made the local public fall in love with her. He didn't hate her for it exactly - on the contrary, he was fascinated by her but not so much as to compromise his reputation that he'd spent so many years building up, both as a player and as a person, by, essentially, sleeping with her for the greater good. The thought alone was revolting, especially considering that she hadn't the foggiest of the meddling that was going on behind her back already, with that French woman (if she was French for that matter). What sort of man would he be in the public eye and in her eyes specifically if he actually swallowed his pride and did what he was told? What sort of directive could they possibly have to justify such vulgar nonsense? Why, out of all of the possible candidates, did it have to be _him_? Luchenko moved a plate of pickled herring closer and Vasily felt something rise to his throat.

"What is it then?" He addressed her at last with a furrowed brow, stretching out the unfamiliar i's a bit more than he should've.

"Pardon?" She just unwittingly mirrored him in her expression.

"Your idea of Russia."

Beth hadn't felt particularly intimidated by the probability of such a question, although, apparently, should've expected it to be voiced by someone of those present. She just didn't think it would be Borgov. Out of all the people here he seemed least likely to put her on the spot with his actual words - probably because he hadn't spoken to her properly until now, so even hearing his bass-baritone in person was novel. She couldn't help but compare the predicament to being asked to the blackboard by a teacher while knowing full well she didn't do the homework.

"Well... it's the people, first and foremost. They're different, I'm sure you'll agree, but I've never seen a public so serious about chess. When you read about the soviets in the papers or in books, they're always so cold, closed off, distant, condescending even but at the same time irreversibly stuck in the past. When you actually meet them, it's completely different. I've never had such a warm reception anywhere I've been. Never seen such passion for the thing most people consider boring... I have to say, it melted my heart."

As she spoke, Borgov poured himself a shot of vodka and overturned the glass into his mouth - couldn't bear the idea of sipping it slowly like the English did it for some reason. The alcohol felt sharp against his throat, like a spiky stalk going through, but he just clenched his jaw and turned to Harmon again.

"Well said." His lips twitched in an attempted smile but he contained it. "Did you, uh- rehearse that?"

The emphasis in "rehearsed" was dramatically incorrect and yet that wasn't what seemed so perplexing to Beth. It was the idea of Vasily Borgov, the undefeatable giant of a player, a real chess legend, being an absolute pussy when it came to losing. He didn't mention the game, didn't even have the common courtesy to congratulate her on her fair victory, but he didn't have to, the case was clear. She had to admit, it stung a little to see the image of her white whale deteriorate before her very eyes but it was sobering at the same time. After all, he wasn't the first man to react that way and he certainly won't be the last one. 

"Vasily," Luchenko pressed gently, not wanting to madden either party - or, in Borgov's case, madden even further. The KGB must've shaken him around pretty badly as never in the whole time they'd known each other had he ever allowed himself such impertinence.

"What? Am I wrong? Don't they all say the same thing?" Borgov couldn't have possibly gotten drunk from just one shot but his face felt hot from the anger bubbling up inside him. His own behaviour, almost childish, surprised him but, at the same time, he had no desire to restrain himself in that moment. She won the match anyway, the deed was done. The faster she leaves the country, the more likely they'll leave him and his family alone.

"Wow, would you look at the time!" Beth stood up from the table gracefully and offered Lev Borisovich Luchenko a gentle parting smile. Vasily Mikhailovich Borgov could suck it. "It's been great spending time with you like this, really, but I have a plane to catch in the morning. I'll write to you though, I promise!"

Luchenko had time to only take her volatile hands in his for a brief moment before she took her coat and walked out to the street where Mr Booth was already waiting for her in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's interested, all of the inspirational music for this chapter and the whole fic in general can be found here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2P81eUuNAMIe1gb93nOfgA?si=H2ihjRKTRSeo_b31PB81Vw (which is a dreadful way to link to something but the site won't let me use a different option). yes, there's a lot of glenn gould in there compared to everything else, and yes, the next chapter is supposed to be set to prelude no. 2 from the well-tempered clavier because i am a nerd.


	2. the canadian relapse (1969) I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone please go read "a carmine-stained cigarette" by spitfire97 instead, it's unbelievable and so much better than this could possibly ever be. literally just go read it now. 
> 
> i somehow managed to choose the one year when there was no such tournament in canada because i'm clever and sexy like that but this is fiction, so i'm just going to leave it as it is. also, cleo, baby, i'm sorry but you're gonna have to be wickham in this one.

The most surprising thing of all was that Beth kept her promise to write to Luchenko. He gave her the address at the restaurant, when she was still in Russia, which seemed a bit alarming at the time, considering their positions in the chess world and the world in general. Evidently, her now regular warden Mr Booth wasn't happy about that, although he learned fairly quickly that she had no interest in becoming a spy for the USSR - or the guts for that matter. She even had to show him her letter once, when they returned to Paris - that time triumphant and completely sober - which was ridiculous. _The whole idea_ of being so famous for playing chess that the government noticed her was ridiculous. But it had its very obvious benefits. She was certain it wasn't the president's own obsession but someone _up there_ was clearly determined to make her the next World Champion, which allowed her to travel abroad more often and attend tournaments to her heart's content. That, in its turn, helped her provide a comfortable living for herself, so Beth did her best to keep her mouth shut about it and not complain about being watched and told what to say to reporters from time to time. In any case, corresponding with Luchenko was pleasant. Clearly being of some aristocratic descent, he was as urbane as ever and told her the most riveting stories about the Soviets that she could ever hope to hear. He told other stories as well but the Soviet players were always shrouded in mystery most of all, so they automatically intrigued her more than the others. They even had a match of correspondence chess once, in which she mercilessly destroyed him but again he was happy to be beaten by her, complimented her technique profusely, however, didn't initiate another match from that point on. He mentioned Borgov once or twice but generally avoided speaking about him for reasons partially beyond Beth's understanding. Although, she could guess that he was either so severely hurt by her winning that game in Moscow that he was still licking his wounds or there was a government conspiracy she didn't need to know about for her own safety. She didn't want to get her precious eccentric friend in trouble, so her own theories were, essentially, the only thing she had to entertain herself with. And anyway, she wasn't interested in him anymore, even though he was still technically World Champion and her permanent target until she was qualified and, frankly, mentally ready to challenge him to fight for the title.

The next time Beth heard about Borgov was a whacking year later, when she entered _the Canadian Open Chess Championship_. She thought about Luchenko immediately. He was going to be there too, he even told her so in his latest letter sent about a month before the tournament, but completely ignored the fact that his best buddy Vasya was also attending, presumably bloodthirsty. She wasn't angry with Borgov anymore, of course, and deemed herself more mature than ever. Besides, more than enough time had passed since their little tussle in Moscow and she'd almost forgotten about the unfortunate reaction he probably had reasons for. However, he was still Borgov. Even if she beat him once, no one could guarantee she'll do it again and again, especially her, despite what the government demanded. The all too familiar craving scratched her ribs from the inside. She was alone now. Not entirely, of course, she still had her connections - with Jolene, Benny, Harry, Townes, even Luchenko. The latter two she'll most likely see at the tournament, one as a reporter, the other as a player, so she will have her anchor there. The mere possibility of seeing disappointment in Lev Borisovich's eyes put needles through her heart already and so, in an attempt to prevent it from bursting and breaking for good, she did her best to refrain and take a turn around _Lex Liquors_ on her way home. She needed to be in her best shape if she was planning on playing Borgov and winning again.

Toronto met Beth with an annoying autumn drizzle right from the airplane door but it was still warm enough to wear her coat unbuttoned. She was lucky the tournament didn't take place a couple of months later - she would _not_ have been able to survive a Canadian winter and stay true to her signature style at the same time. Her constant companion Mr Booth helped her to the car before her hair got wet and relatively quickly she was already checking in at the hotel. It appeared as if the whole floor was assigned to those attending the tournament, which meant that Luchenko had to have been around there somewhere. Although the flight wasn't insufferably long and she didn't feel particularly tired, seeking him out right away seemed rude for some reason and she'd much prefer to meet him officially, so she decided to go straight to her room and start her preparations before the first game. She already had her key in the lock when the sound of Lev Borisovich's hushed voice, coming from the room opposite hers, reached her ears. Beth smiled instinctively and half-turned in place, involuntarily eavesdropping but not actually trying to make sense of the words. He was having a conversation in Russian, quietly explaining something and moving pieces on a chessboard. Not an unusual business, she thought to herself, but still, when Borgov finally replied, just as quietly, softly even, she quivered in surprise as if she didn't expect him to be there. Of course it was him, who else would it be? She didn't turn fully but somehow knew the door was only slightly open, just enough for the voices to spill out into the corridor but not enough for them to see each other. Wondering if he could sense her presence as well as she could his, if all those times she looked at him from a distance made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up the same way hers did when he looked at her, Beth silently retreated to her room.

There weren't as many reporters here as at the Invitationals they attended before and that allowed her to properly examine Borgov the first time she actually saw him without being side-eyed for her keen interest in her main rival. He, Luchenko and a couple of other players were standing in a half-circle in the hall, as if waiting for someone else to join in but the only other people in their immediate vicinity were his usual retinue of two sleazy-looking KGB agents. He was wearing a three-piece suit - _that was a first_ \- the colour of graphite, which nicely complemented his slowly greying hair. His wife wasn't with him - that was also a first and utterly unheard of. Beth foolishly thought she decrypted him in Moscow when she saw him smile, saw his raw, undefended living flesh through the cracks of his protective stone mask, felt him shuffle off his armour to hold her in his arms, but he still had the same enigmatic air about him as before and it was strangely comforting. Him being so withdrawn, unbothered, completely ignoring her staring at him from the other side of the hall, only added fuel to the fire. And suddenly she found herself wanting to beat him again, not only for the credit but for the process itself.

Having finally noticed her, Luchenko's eyes lit up and he gestured for her to approach them.

"Lev Borisovich," Beth smiled radiantly, expectedly greeting him first.

"Miss Elizabeth," he beamed in return and virtuously briefly pressed his lips to her knuckles in an old-fashioned manner. If it were anyone but him, any other man, she probably would've winced but she knew he meant well and didn't mind his gallantry. "And now the tournament is saved!"

"You flatter me but that won't help you win." She narrowed her eyes conspiratorially but a tiny dimple in the right corner of her mouth signified that she was only teasing.

"Oh, no, no, I only hoped for a fair fight."

Luchenko shook his head, the cloud of white hair swaying gently around, and chuckled quietly; then proceeded to introduce the other players she had a vague recollection of meeting in Moscow. Laev and Shapkin, their names were. The games weren't particularly memorable but she still knew them to be powerful opponents and wasn't planning on letting her guard down in front of them. When it was Borgov's turn to finally break the kind of one-sided eye contact he was indulging in until now, Beth held out her hand to shake his like she did with the others but to her great surprise he bent down, pulled her hand closer and kissed her elegant fingers. At least, it looked like a kiss but she wasn't sure if it actually happened, if his lips touched her hand. Nevertheless, her skin flared up in the place he supposedly made contact with it as if she brought it too close to a burning candle. Meeting his eyes in that moment, something written in them, some desire she couldn't quite decipher, didn't exactly help the matter. Everyone stood silently for a moment, flummoxed by the uncharacteristic display, including, seemingly, Borgov himself who looked like even he didn't expect such spontaneous bravery.

"Didn't know you were such a flirt, Mr Borgov." Beth was the first to break the awkward silence, which, in turn, was somewhat unusual for her, but she did so with little emotion, still processing what just happened, and quickly retrieved her hand, hiding it in the flowy skirts of her dress and unconsciously pressing the back of it against her thigh. "Why this chivalry all of a sudden?"

"I was ashamed. When we last met, my behaviour was inexcusable." His pronunciation was much clearer now, almost textbookish, but she could still hear the sharp consonants of his accent, which, admittedly, was even a bit charming. Whether Borgov studied up for this particular interaction or because his wife couldn't translate for him here for some reason, she didn't know but she couldn't help but feel pleased in a very vain sort of way.

"I try not to judge people by a singular bad example. You're forgiven." She moved her shoulder nonchalantly and slightly tilted her head to the side, unable to avert her eyes but convincingly making it look like she was staring him down before the upcoming fight. Borgov stared right back, unreadable but beguiling in his indiscernibility. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

The announcer's voice indicated the beginning of the game, so their group gradually dissipated. Beth took the seat opposite a local Grandmaster she hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting and the assistant pushed down the button on the clock, thus starting the countdown of the ten days she was going to spend there. Although other players were as good as they could've been, the Soviets were the only ones she felt genuinely challenged by. Looking up from her own board from time to time when her current opponent was contemplating the next move, her eyes drifted to their demonstrative scoreboards placed alternately around the hall. She could tell from Laev's time he's been practising a lot since their last game because if he played like that, she definitely would've remembered him. She could see Luchenko's unusual brutality, his quirky demeanour now seeming deceptive. She could sense Borgov's unrelenting gaze on her every time she won a match and stood up from the table, following her from one player to another. In fact, the only other serious competitor was a Swedish player, Wikström, and if he didn't blunder with his rook out of nowhere, she could've lost but she seized the opportunity to advance and eventually they were shaking hands over his black king now laying on its side. There was a darkness in his eyes that would've seemed comical if he wasn't so goddamn good. She was going to hear his name in the future, she was certain of it.

On her seventh day in Toronto Beth stood up from the table with a somewhat heavy heart, the closeness of her potential loss, the upcoming games with Laev, Luchenko and yes, she was confident, Borgov too, pressing down on her, making her every step more laborious than the previous one. She was entirely engrossed in her own thoughts, going over those little bits of Borgov's latest game she managed to see over her own, when she turned the corner and bumped into not anyone but Cleo. Granted, her hair was slightly longer now and she wore fashionable slacks instead of a minidress, but the languidly mischievous look in her eyes was unmistakable. The state Beth's face morphed into must've been really something as the first thing Cleo did was laugh.

"I fly all the way from Quebec just to see you crush those Russians and you look at me like I've just taken your mother out on a date."

"Cleo!"

She flung herself onto the woman and embraced her tightly, not a trace of disdain in her actions. She never blamed Cleo for what happened in Paris. Even if she was more persistent with her offers to meet at the bar than it would've been appropriate, at the end of the day the fault was only Beth's. The kind of fault that, from time to time, kept her up at night to this day, despite all of her achievements that followed shortly after. The guilt weighed on her still, motivated her every move, and even though Cleo never physically forced her to drink or take pills that night, her face reminded her of the Invitational and she admitted to herself that very second that she was still afraid of spiralling. Beth didn't voice her fears but Cleo knew as she was the one to witness her pathetic defeat in Paris and took her sightseeing instead of the bar. Surprisingly, Mr Booth didn't protest too strongly - probably because she was a pretty French woman and not a fearsome Soviet chess player and for that reason only couldn't have possibly posed a serious threat. She hadn't quite registered that before but being under the agent's watchful eye the whole time she played somewhere publicly made her more mindful of her behaviour, including drinking, so she could've at least tried being more grateful. However, when he gave them the eye as they strutted out of the hotel, Beth's hand on Cleo's elbow, she simply smiled and shrugged.

She returned to the hotel sober, alone and at a reasonable time. She had no good cause to be this proud of herself for literally doing the bare minimum but she allowed herself that anyway. Mr Booth's smug but pleased enough smirk as they each went to their respective room only made her giddier. Fiddling with the key, she could hear Luchenko and Borgov's quiet comradely debate over rook and pawn endings from the room opposite hers but as much as she wanted to listen in on the potential strategy, she contained the desire and went into her room feeling like an efficient little student. Closing the door behind her, though, she leaned against it and touched the cold painted wood with her fingertips. "Did he feel that too?" she thought to herself. "Did he feel the same pressure?" The skin on her knuckles suddenly started burning in the same place Borgov briefly pressed his lips to it.


	3. the canadian relapse (1969) II

Townes arrived the next day. Beth had been wondering why he missed the first few days, especially considering there hadn't been particularly any coverage of the tournament so far, but not so much as to ask him about it upfront. The only thing that mattered now was that he was there, for however long, and she didn't have to prepare in complete solitude. That reminded her of Methuen and she didn't like being reminded of it. 

To her amazement, she saw Luchenko before she saw Laev. In her head that could only mean that the latter grew a lot stronger than she initially expected but as soon as they shook hands, all polite smiles and not a hint of long-forgotten hostility, she realised rather quickly, in about twenty moves, that Lev Borisovich wasn't going to present as much challenge as she anticipated. She was certain that he would never stoop so low as to allow her that win, that he fought fairly and squarely just like he wanted to - not to mention that even if for some unknown reason he truly wished to yield, his own government would lynch him on the spot for showing weakness to the enemy - but there was something that resembled disappointment somewhere deep, deep down in her soul pointed vaguely in his direction. Was it the age catching up on him or something else, she didn't know. Instead, she decided to ignore it entirely and thanked him for a great game. The old-fashioned way, she jokingly noted to herself, whatever that meant. 

Cleo didn't leave as soon as Beth maybe, secretly, fleetingly, wished she would, determined to be there for all three of her most spectacular matches at the open. In Harmon's free time they spoke of the places they'd been and why, went shopping for more weather-appropriate clothes and laughed and laughed and laughed. Cleo was a storyteller to be sure, with her mystifying accent and the kind of general aura about her that signified great wisdom hidden beneath all the layers of makeup, fashion and stereotypical French haughtiness that most people didn't even consider trying to see through. Beth, on the contrary, wanted to unravel her, get to the fountain of truth at the very centre, but was also slightly afraid of what she might see. She enjoyed studying people from time to time, enjoyed the possibility of becoming a good judge of character, but only from a safe distance. Didn't want to turn into a silly little moth flying dangerously close to the flame. 

Laev was ruthless. It didn't really matter whether he harboured the idea of taking revenge on her for that match in Moscow specifically or simply got better, unbelievably, in one year. What mattered was that using her now almost signature move, the Queen's Gambit, as an opening made her overly confident in beating him in the very beginning and as a result of that she got sloppy ridiculously quickly. She dug herself a hole and jumped straight into it, looking like a complete novice on her way down. For the second time in her entire career as a player, she had to adjourn. Laev hid his triumph well, not too eager to celebrate while the game hadn't been won yet. Beth choked on quiet curses as she rushed to her room, Townes following close behind. She could feel Borgov's eyes on her once again as she left. 

Eventually, to Laev's chagrin, she won that match. She shook his hand solemnly and even found the strength to praise him for his technique. He was courteous enough to accept her generosity, although couldn't help the frustration showing through his stern Soviet features. She didn't admit, of course, that she hadn't slept a wink as it took her and Townes literally the whole night to prepare, didn't express even the slightest bit of tiredness neither to him nor to the few reporters that surrounded her afterwards. But she was tired. More mentally than physically but tired nonetheless. Sitting in her room, this time alone as Townes had his own reporter business to attend to and could only join her later in the evening, and going over Borgov's book once again in hopes of finding some secret moves, some hidden tricks she might've missed on her previous readings, she felt the buzzing in her head, like an ever-growing swarm, get louder and louder. She knew she didn't _need_ the pills, didn't _need_ to blunt her senses, but fuck, she _wanted_ them. She never fully realised how badly she _just wanted_ them, stupidly thinking that winning in chess was the only reason. The system was simple, atypically so for a person like Beth Harmon: she took the pills, felt better for a short while, then felt worse for much longer, then took pills again to forget it. It was, quite honestly, laughable how well she could logically understand the pattern and the outcome and yet didn't really do anything to change it. Addict Beth wasn't logical. Addict Beth felt safe in her pattern and didn't want to break out of it. Addict Beth luxuriated in her cloud of numbness and apathy where no one could possibly hurt her.

The phone rang, old and a little out of tune - she couldn't quite tell if it was real or in her head. Suddenly the book was extremely boring. Her palms were itching when she lifted the receiver up to her ear. 

"That was close, eh?" The sound of Cleo's voice, sweet like honey, faintly spilt out into the silent room. "But you were amazing- Well, as much as I can judge."

"Thanks." A quiet snicker, husky from exhaustion. "I wasn't but I'll take it."

"Alright, alright, you clearly know better than I do..." Beth could tell the woman was still smiling but the hesitant pause made her heart painfully skip a beat. "Listen, um... could you maybe join me at the bar downstairs?"

"Cleo, I-"

"I know, Beth! I know how it sounds, believe me. But I'm leaving tomorrow and I didn't want to make... how do you say it- an Irish exit." Beth laughed a little more at that but remained silently unconvinced. "I'll be good this time, promise. We'll just chat for a little while. I have to be ready for the flight at three in the morning, so you'll have plenty of time to prepare."

It seemed Beth Harmon enjoyed inscrutable people the most - the main example probably being Borgov - since Cleo was just as hard to read at times, but even though she couldn't see the French woman's face at the moment, she still sensed a hint of sadness in her voice and it... hurt. As much as she hated to admit it, as much as she wanted to appear stoic and confidently self-contained, it hurt to disappoint people. God, sometimes she could be so fucking stupid for a genius.

"Okay. But only for a little while. I really... really need to prepare for this one, Cleo, so no drinking for today."

"Got it, no drinking."

Her watch, Alma's present to her, from way back at the start of her chess career, still wasn't working - she never got round to fixing it but continued wearing it as a sort of good luck charm, which seemed painfully ironic on certain occasions - so there was no clear way for Beth to tell what time it was when they stumbled back to her room. It was already dark outside. So dark, in fact, that the windows on her floor, now almost completely black save only for the distorted reflections of the lights, looked painted on. She didn't care, though, not really. She was euphoric from the alcohol coursing through her veins. Her entire face felt numb from the amount and she was near-certain her fingers couldn't feel anything either but she was simply unable to find even a smidgen of remorse in her heart. She will, very soon, regret it deeply like she always does but not now. Now she felt like dancing and laughing and looking at her beautiful, beautiful Cleo.

"Can you believe it though, with a fish? Right in the face? God, I'm so glad I'll never see him again..." Cleo's story wouldn't seem particularly funny to Beth at any other time as her sense of humour was a bit too morbid for the young grandmaster's liking but now she just couldn't stop. Her face was already pink from straining and the key kept falling out of her hand, which cracked her up even more. The otherwise completely silent hall was now filled to the brim with her mirth and it would've been fine if not for the cause of it.

As she leaned down, once again, to pick up the key from the carpeted floor, the door behind her slowly opened and out stepped Borgov. He was wearing a plain shirt with the sleeves rolled up and simple trousers instead of his usual suit - that, as far as Beth knew, could as well have been a part of his body at this point - which could've made him look leisured or, god forbid, relaxed if it wasn't for the dominant stance, like his limbs were being held together by a tightly strung wire. He didn't say a word but gave Beth a patronising look - or at least that's what she thought it was supposed to be. There was no condescension in his eyes, despite what the situation suggested, and yet she could feel him estimating her worth as a rival with every fibre of her being. She heard her heart beating in her ears, blood beginning to boil, wanted to run up to him and slap him in the face for judging her but, by some miracle, managed to keep the distance.

"Uh oh, papa has awoken," she teased, turning to her friend again, suddenly with a straight face adorned, perhaps, with only a hint of annoyance. Her voice, however, got a touch quieter.

"Is he going to tell you to go to your room?"

Cleo's face remained somewhat impassive but she was looking at Borgov intently, as if they'd known each other for a long enough time to despise one another. Beth didn't see it, having finally turned her attention to the lock, but if she did, it would've been enough to raise suspicion. However, as soon as she opened the lock, she grabbed Cleo by the forearm and dragged her inside, slamming the door ostentatiously behind them.

"Fuck him." Beth practically spat out, pressing the woman against the door and herself - against her, either out of lack of balance or driven by a different desire.

"Oh! So unladylike. Was that an order or wishful thinking?" She just laughed in her oh so very charming way and impishly tilted her head to the side. The heat of her breath on Beth's face, so close to her lips, made her head spin even more than the alcohol. Cleo's knee riding agonisingly slowly up her inner thigh only worsened the matter. "Perfect," she breathed, tracing the fine line of Beth's lower lip with her thumb. "Perfect little morsel. I could eat you up."

"Don't say that." Beth only furrowed her brow artlessly and leaned in to kiss her.

She probably should've been ashamed for not remembering if they actually had sex in Paris or it was all her own guilt-ridden imagination mixed with rumours but, then again, she didn't really care. She felt like she was stuck in a perpetual state of whirling. The whole night was a blur of hungry mouths, desperate whimpers and craving so dire, so scorching hot that it almost melted her into nothing. She wanted to climb inside of Cleo and touch her heart. Wanted to give all of herself out to the very last drop, hoping it would, for once, be enough. She wanted to scream - and maybe she did - at the top of her lungs, so that the whole hotel would hear her, so that he would hear her, silent judgment be damned, since, it seemed, she destroyed her reputation already.

"Jesus, Harmon..." Townes' voice felt the most condemning of all as he entered her reasonably tidy room the next morning. There were some pieces of discarded clothing thrown about on the floor, of course, but not bottles this time, no pills, no incriminating evidence. He could tell, though, one look at her and she crumbled. "Must've been a hell of a night."

"Can we please have the talk later? I will listen to your sage advice, I promise, but I'd really love to prepare now that I still have some time-"

Seeing her becoming frantic again, Townes quickly approached her and sat down on the bed beside her, gently placing his hand on her shoulder to ground her.

"Beth, it's fine." He nodded slowly, looking her straight in the eyes, making sure she heard and understood him. "I wasn't going to have _the talk_ with you, whatever that means. You're too big of a girl now for me to scold you, don't you think?" With that he managed to get a short huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle out of her. "Come on, let's set up the board."


	4. the canadian relapse (1969) III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i'm on my knees begging the chess players of the fandom who may read this for forgiveness. the following display is the famous karpov vs kasparov game from the 1985 world chess championship and this is probably not how it should've been translated but i genuinely just looked at the board and tried my best. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. can't stress this enough... i'm sorry.  
> also yes, the piano metaphor is from "cd318" of the 33 short films about glenn gould because i'm a nerd AND unoriginal.

The lights in the hall that just yesterday she thought were too dim for playing in the evening now seemed blinding. Her eyes felt permanently dry and her head was entirely too big, too heavy for her neck not to snap under it. Her whole body ached and moved as if someone had left her pressed between pages of a book for the whole night in hopes of pinning her dried up corpse to a board in the morning. She could make a fine specimen but the exposition's lifetime solely depended on the collector. Beth stopped in the doorway and looked around the audience. There were no flashes this time, no one jumped in her face with a camera, impatient to capture her possible downfall in the finest detail, and she wasn't even late but the back of her neck still smouldered under their attentive gazes. She had, by all means, gotten herself stuck in a loop, completely entangled in a mating net of her own unscrupulous creation, and the only way to break out of it on this particular occasion would be to play Borgov and win gracefully, like the astounding prodigy everyone seemed to think she was. It was all, once again, irritatingly, about disappointment. As much as she tried to convince herself she didn't care about what they write in the papers, about the way they look at her, about the pressure of infeasible expectations she was supposed to not only measure up to but exceed, in her heart of hearts she felt the constant need for validation. And since it was never going to be given to her by anyone, fully, at all times, for no good reason, she had to earn it herself, had to fight for it ceaselessly.

Beth's eyes fell on Borgov's unshakeable figure, already at the table, as she approached him. With all of her nervousness - hidden somewhere under all the layers of her unperturbed disguise - it suddenly seemed very funny to her how reporters would often compare him to a king in their sycophantic commentaries, while in reality he more resembled a rook, all sturdy, rugged and sovietly severe. In her still cloudy mind, a king would fit a sort of Byronic hero that he clearly was not. The juxtaposition entertained her for a beat but she brushed it off as soon as her rival rose up from the table in his usual swift and unsophisticated manner and put out his hand. She took it, her grip on his fingers unconvincingly firm, and knitted her brow involuntarily as she finally lifted her eyes up to glance at him. Borgov gave her the same patronising look, just like yesterday, but there was something else, too. Some echo of a warning, perhaps. There was not a trace of the last night's escapade in all of her appearance - courtesy of D. L. Townes - but he knew and it was enough. His silent confidence brought her to a simmer.

Harmon, as White, started off with the Taimanov variation of the Sicilian, which was a solid choice. Her previous game with Laev reminded her of the importance of being cool-headed and not jumping straight to showing off, and although her usual technique was a bit fierier from the beginning, it had only worked once with Borgov. Back then she had a team of chess players, including a Kentucky State Champion and a United States Champion, as her council, working for hours to prepare a foolproof strategy. Now she only had Townes and her own whirring brain. Her genius brain, certainly, but only running on an aspirin tablet instead of her usual cocktail.

Initially going for the Maróczy Bind, Beth was the first to deviate. Borgov, aggravatingly sober and assertive, though still as calm and procedural as always, diligently wound up the clockwork mechanism in her back and made her dance around the pawn on d5. She took the bait immediately, which wasn't a horrible move by itself, and then took it again, an inkling that it might've been a gambit she hadn't seen before bouncing from one corner of her skull to another. Her eleventh move, bishop to e2, was a slight improvement but ultimately led to nothing. The inaccuracy of putting her queen forward, to d2, sent a barely audible murmur around the hall and she couldn't contain a sigh as she heard Townes curse quietly under his breath. The glass of water by her left hand seemed so incredibly tempting but she did her best to abstain, too afraid of mirroring the Parisian disaster in its entirety. 

Her indiscretion, however, was quickly overshadowed by the black knight advancing to d3. Borgov pushed down the button on the clock and put his hands on the table in front of him dispassionately but Beth couldn't help imagining him slapping her in the face - gently, almost, in a twisted way, lovingly, but with so much despondency in his eyes that it probably would've made her cry if it didn't infuriate her first. The move was brilliant, a perfect display of dominance, control over the whole board, and the fact that she could see it already, on his sixteenth move, was maddening. In the moment it felt like he was punishing her for yesterday but the logical side of her - now free from the shackles it had been put in by Beth the Addict - knew, of course, that he couldn't have possibly been that petty. No, Borgov was as exceptional as he was formidable, and she could've hated him for it if she didn't hate herself more.

Beth fought. Despite Borgov's efforts to suppress her from all sides, she fought tooth and nail, stumbling again with her pawn to f3 in her thirtieth move, which eventually allowed her to capture the unyielding knight with her queen but subsequently led her to lose it to his bishop on the same goddamn spot. She devoured the bishop on move thirty-seven and instantly blundered with her knight to b2 on move thirty-eight. She wanted to claw her eyes out so badly that she even failed to notice Borgov's only inaccuracy in the whole game. In her last attempt to save her face, knowing, nonetheless, that the chance was long gone, she captured his first rook but his second one advanced across the whole board in one swift motion. And thus Beth Harmon was destroyed in forty moves.

The realisation should've dawned on her much earlier in the game, but suddenly she felt like a perfectly good piano that had been left abandoned on the stage by an exhausted virtuoso. Although, perhaps, in this dramatic metaphor of hers she was both the instrument and the player.

"I resign," she uttered dejectedly, yet still making an effort to look up and face the victor with leftover decorum. Borgov was just as hard to read as ever, though there was also the kind of glint in his eyes that hinted at some hidden emotion, hopelessly trying to break out of his sombre exterior. Beth didn't see it: maybe she didn't care enough or maybe made a conscious choice not to. Instead, she stood up from the table, careful not to storm off like a child, and offered him a hand to shake. "Great game." He took her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers with such unacceptable tenderness she didn't ever think he had in him, but only for a moment as the few photographers rushed to seize yet another fateful meeting of the minds. 

Seeing her in the hotel bar, alone and distraught, wasn't as unexpected as it could've been on any other day, considering what events had transpired some couple of hours ago. Borgov, however, with his constant air of sobriety around him and still in his vexingly presentable suit, appeared a little out of place among those men who usually inhabited such establishments, desperately trying to chat someone up. Yet, after the soul-crushing showdown in the main hall, they both ended up at the opposite ends of the same bar. His main directive was, essentially, that exact thing - to chat her up, console her after the loss and maybe, just maybe, use her plight as an advantage and take her up to his room to initiate a closer connection. The mention of that last part alone made his stomach turn but the situation he found himself in was dire, to say the least. For the first time in years Galina was tasked with a different interpreting job that prevented her from going to Canada with him, which in and of itself was already telling, but he also knew that they had started following Seryozha on his way to school. He didn't want to find out what they were planning to do next. 

Beth noticed him quickly - or rather he could sense that she noticed him, since she didn't even turn her head to look. Despite his current disposition towards her and the fact that their acquaintance could barely be described as such, he couldn't deny that there was some sort of kinship between them. Most likely it had to do with chess. In all of his life he'd never met anyone who shared his passion for the game with such abandon. She had her reasons for it, of course; being an orphan of sorts himself he knew the undying need to cling to a constant something, and chess, in his mind, was the very definition of that. It had its beauty, its science, it changed and grew but at the same time stayed solid and reliable. Even if he wasn't fortunate enough to tie his soul to Galina's, even if he didn't have anyone else in the whole wide world, he would still have chess and that knowledge was comforting. He'd never spoken to Beth Harmon about it but he somehow knew she felt the same.

"So you come here often?" The expression on Vasily's face could be interpreted as quizzical but turned down to about ten percent, in his usual manner. The line was uncommon for a Soviet man, at least of his age group, and it drew him away from the sarcastic notes in Beth's voice. Her quiet chuckle, however, solidified her inclination. "Relax, Mr Borgov, I was just joking. You're not my type anyway." She murmured that last part but he heard it still.

"Do you?" His own voice was unsurprisingly serious, though not as stern as it could've been, given his level of distress.

She appeared to have been taken aback by his straightforwardness but only for a moment as she finally turned to him and saw that he wasn't really, actually, genuinely planning on hitting on her - or whatever it was called here. He could swear, though, that for a split-second her face was touched by something that resembled disgruntlement at his lack of interest. Probably due to her ego already being in shambles, nothing else.

"If you came here to gloat, I'll go to my room right now and throw your book out the window." Her elegant eyebrows furrowed, she stared at him with determination but the light veil of redness upon her eyes lessened the effect. She'd been drinking again. Presumably not a lot but it was noticeable enough for him to instinctively look at her glass. "It's seltzer water."

She whispered something he couldn't hear through gritted teeth and took another swig, the withered lemon slice in her drink almost falling on her face. The sight was almost, in its special way, endearing but her self-deprecation seeping through her every feature somehow made it even more dismal. Christ, why did it have to be _her?_ Couldn't they have found someone stable? She needed help, genuine support - she needed love that was staggering, all-encompassing and utterly unambiguous, which, hopefully, would've shaken some sense into her. Not an intervention in hopes of turning her into a communist. This was all so... stupid.

"You could've played bishop to e3 instead of castling." Leaving his empty glass behind, Borgov moved a couple seats closer, which seemingly startled Beth a little as she most likely didn't expect him to be the one to close the distance between them. Admittedly, it was uncharacteristic but he couldn't allow himself the luxury of wasting time anymore.

"It wouldn't have changed anything." Curiosity sufficiently piqued, she half-turned to him again.

"It would have been an improvement." English was unrelenting, especially when it came to perfecting pronunciation, but, like with everything else in life he had to learn, Vasily tried his best. Beth, once again, stared at him silently for several moments, her eyes glazed over, as if trying to decipher what he was getting at with this, essentially, useless piece of advice, and then just shrugged.

"Well, you could've played king to g8 in the endgame in Moscow."

An invisible string pulled the right corner of his mouth a millimetre up. 1-1.

"You have played well at the tournament." His remark was immediately met with yet another crestfallen snicker.

"And now you're being facetious. Great." Borgov didn't even try to hide the fact that the true meaning of the word escaped him and she softened momentarily, just a bit. "You don't actually mean what you're saying."

"What makes you think that?"

"I dunno, maybe the fact that you've publicly humiliated me not three hours ago? Just a thought though." Sensing herself getting riled up again, Beth visibly forced herself to stop and took another sip from her glass. "Well, actually, I did that to myself, so you're off the hook, I guess."

All of a sudden Vasily found himself wishing to take her by the shoulders and just shake her a little, to make her look around and see where she is in life, in the world, how much she had already accomplished at such a young age. He knew, of course, what it meant to lose, especially when the game held the same level of importance - and even if the assumption was arrogant on his part, he still knew it to be true - but her current bleak outlook genuinely made him pity her. However, showing it outright would mean playing straight into the hands of the KGB and he hadn't yet descended to that level. Speaking of which...

"Where is your friend?" Having finally turned completely to face her, Borgov leaned to the side, on the counter, his pose unconventionally relaxed, though he didn't exactly feel that way. Beth gave him a quick look-over and returned to his eyes instantly but the ephemeral damage was already done. Unexpectedly, the collar of his shirt seemed a little too tight.

"Probably writing." She moved her shoulder a little. "He's a reporter, you know, not my babysitter."

"I meant your other friend." He knew the French woman by name - knew because they'd met before, not once and inherently for the same reason but that was a whole another story he didn't see himself telling in the nearest future - but was careful enough not to say it out loud, seeing how the mere mention of her obviously flustered the young grandmaster already.

"She... left," Beth admitted, a bit downcast but generally retaining her sangfroid. Maybe she hadn't had as much at the bar as he originally thought. "I don't really know where to but I'm guessing it has something to do with her job."

Well, that was certainly one way of putting it.

"Convenient." Borgov clicked his tongue and averted his gaze, knowing that, for whatever reason, be it legitimate infatuation or her wounded ego, he caught her attention once again.

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing."

Harmon studied him for a moment, recognition blossoming in her eyes at a snail's pace, and he felt like an ant under a magnifying glass - an all too familiar state for him but not an enjoyable one. Although, with her it was always so different. Her watching him evoked a completely different emotion, though he hadn't yet succeeded in finding the right name for it. 

"Oh yeah, I forgot it's not a thing in Russia." She gave him a supercilious smile instead of a seemingly obvious question.

"Is it _a thing_ in America?" he retorted, half honestly asking, half mirroring her demeanour.

She had no idea, of course, about his wife and her predilection for women, though she was, unfortunately, correct about it being reprehensible in the Soviet Union. Thinking of Galina obscured his face with a dark and menacing cloud before Beth could even retaliate. His wife was, in all senses, his best friend and twin soul. Despite their marriage being unorthodox, their love for each other, albeit platonic, was far more profound than that of most "normal" couples. They'd been together through thick and thin, so when she ached, he ached the same. He wouldn't exactly betray her trust if he were to follow through on his instructions but the societal values, ingrained in his mind ever since he was a boy, built up an impassable barrier. Besides, the possibility of attracting publicity to his family threatened to uncover Galina's true feelings for him and her _lady friend_ , which could potentially result in them either being separated, thrown out of the country or forcefully hushed down for life. He wouldn't care, in that case, about his own career since it was never as much the credit as it was the action that he wanted but he couldn't possibly risk Galina's life and reputation. He couldn't even bring himself to think of their boy.

"You should go to your room." Borgov almost murmured and furrowed his brow, finally noticing that he'd been staring at his wedding ring this whole time.

"Excuse me?" Beth, in turn, raised her eyebrows at his tone that she seemed to have interpreted as authoritative. Maybe she was right.

"You should go to your room," he repeated plainly, lifting his head up to look at her. "You're wasting your time here, drinking. You could set up the board and go over the game again and again until you understand what you have done wrong. You could go talk to your reporter friend. You could go see the sights if you have never been here before. Just- don't sit here, alone."

He could tell by the expression on her face, by her pose, by the way she breathed in as soon as he finished talking that she wanted with her entire being to protest, to inform him that he was actually neither the first nor the hundredth person to tell her that, but something stopped her. Perhaps, it was debilitation, both mental and physical. Or maybe she just didn't care about being perceived as resolute and independent by him. So much so that she even agreed when Borgov offered to walk her to her room, which, they both knew, could be misconstrued by just about everyone who might bump into them on the way. And, to be fair, it was. The two KGB agents monitoring his progress from one of the farther tables, whose names he never bothered to remember, watched him as he helped Beth to the door, carefully supporting her by the elbow. A group of tournament attendees who stayed at the hotel for the final game quietly peered at them as they rounded the corner. The concierge gave them a knowing but disapproving look as they entered the elevator. Vasily tried his best not to pay attention, to ignore the gnawing awareness of his age and of the way him handling the young inebriated grandmaster could've looked to other people.

"You're like my mother," she mumbled, positively amused by the situation, as he cautiously propped her against the doorframe while trying to unlock the door. It seemed there really was some kind of problem with it, since his barely trembling fingers couldn't quite put the key in correctly. There were two versions of him that existed in that moment: one was being watched by Elizabeth Harmon, the other - watched her watching him. The first one was tall, broad-shouldered, made of stone, the second - feeble, vulnerable, raw, and hid behind the first one's back like a scared little boy. "Actually no. My mother tried to kill me, so..."

Beth never finished the sentence and tried to head into the room as Vasily, at last, managed to open the door but stumbled a little on her way and grabbed his arm for support. Still confounded by the revelation and rattled by the unanticipated contact, he just stood there with his eyes fixed on her. Her lips were slightly parted and, as the heat of her breath reached his face, he could feel his heartbeat quickening unexpectedly. Suddenly, he was struck by a peculiar desire to reach out, touch her face, fix the strand of rust-coloured hair that was covering one of her eyes, big, dark like overripe cherries and completely brilliant. The storm of confusion raging inside him, however, was stopped in an instant as her reporter friend whose name he also didn't remember walked into the hallway.

"Mr Borgov..." Hesitantly stretching out his name practically letter by letter, the young man approached them. "What an- honour..?" He narrowed his eyes a little, visibly surprised by the sight, and looked between them suspiciously. "Beth?"

Vasily quickly gathered his wits and effortlessly put on a mask of indifference, taking a small step back from Beth and passing her over to her friend. Whatever their relationship was, he seemed trustworthy enough and wouldn't look out of place by her side.

"Huh? Yeah..." She just nodded as the reporter helped her into the room, leaving Borgov alone in the hall.


	5. какой русский не пьет виски? (july 1970)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you can see by the temporary betrayal of the naming convention, this is a totally unplanned chapter. it came to me in the middle of the night and can be considered a sort of lyrical digression for lack of a better word, written entirely self-indulgently for the purpose of bringing them a little closer together before The Scene (which i won't reveal just yet, but if you're a fan of period dramas, you probably know what i'm talking about). now, be honest: do i have a problem?   
> also, the name ("what sort of russian doesn't drink whiskey?") is a line from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J15eegjEVZk). the chapter has barely anything to do with the lyrics and nothing at all to do with the buck wild video but i personally find the name fitting in a metaphorical way rather than literally.   
> *gently holds john grant* you are the only one i care about

Thinking she was ready for any kind of heat after visiting Mexico City once in her life was foolish and Beth understood that now but nothing could've possibly prepared her for spending a whole month in Buenos Aires. She arrived two days prior, determined to see whatever the capital city had to offer before the start of the tournament. She was also determined to study up sufficiently, considering that she would have to clash with some of the most accredited masters from all over the world, some of whom - now almost by her own tradition - were Soviet, and that meant avoiding alcohol completely. Her plans, however, had to be cancelled nearly entirely due to the unrelenting heat she didn't anticipate, so the only passable option she had left when it came to entertainment was chess. Luckily, her thirst for knowledge was still unquenched and the fiery imprint of a powerful hand on her amour propre still stung noticeably enough for her to pull herself together. Of course, the craving never faded, not really. It returned to her mostly when she was alone with her thoughts, her doubts, her undying fear of defeat; it tried to take her by the hand, spin her round and round until her mind stopped distinguishing nightmare from reality and she could be moulded into an obedient little addict that she had always been. Eventually, though, it started failing more and more often. She was still afraid of relapsing and that made her more cautious, which was both for the better and worse according to her different acquaintances, but generally she managed to gain some control over it. Jolene was immensely proud of her for that, not to mention her boys and Benny especially. It felt good to make them proud and the feeling was so strong that, on some days, it outshined the pain that came from disappointing people. It made all of the struggles worth it. And yet, the dread of a possible misstep was not what sent shivers down her spine.

The tournament was set in an exhibition hall of sorts, which allowed for several matches to go on at the same time with spectators moving from one board to another if they wished to do so. The process itself was, in a way, refreshing, although reminded Beth of playing in gyms, back in Lexington, but the location, despite looking new and presentable, was so low profile that they managed to run into some kind of trouble almost every day. The proverbial cherry on top was a power shortage - as she learned later, a common occurrence in that time of year - that resulted in her upcoming match with not just anyone but Georgi Girev, the Russian boy she had so much trouble in defeating in Mexico City, being postponed until late evening, maybe even transferred to the next day. She wasn't the only player who suffered the same fate that day, of course, and the setback wasn't so tremendous that it threatened to throw her whole performance at the tournament but it definitely made her at least somewhat anxious. Loafing about in the hall didn't feel particularly wise, so she decided to use her free time rationally and set up a board to go over some of the games. Some light still came through from the streets outside and there was no scarcity of supplies needed for preparing, so she chose a comfortable enough chair and set up camp by one of the windows that wasn't occupied by other players yet. While the organisers were busy trying to get the power generators working, some genius brought candles into the hall, making the image seem simultaneously laughable and charming. That was the first time she saw Borgov.

No one really expected him to show up at the tournament he wasn't strictly attending, and for a moment Beth wondered if it was even legal for him to be here but the thought gradually waned when she saw him conversing with Girev. Georgi was the same preppy-looking boy with a whole tub of gel in his hair and an outlook of an old man. The only difference was that now he seemed lankier than the last time she met him, about four years ago, though still tried to carry himself with familiar Soviet aloofness, probably hoping to mirror his teacher. The idea of Borgov being a tutor for that World Champion in the making felt odd, too angular to fit in her head, but she couldn't quite put her finger on why. Perhaps she was too used to seeing him reserved, buttoned-up to the point that it was hard to breathe - so much so that it erased the memories of watching him with his wife, his son. By her estimation, little Mr Borgov should've been about five years younger than Georgi, maybe a bit less, so the picture she was witnessing now wasn't that much different. She could tell, even from across the hall, that despite his stern features and severe technique, he was soft-spoken and patient with his protégé, kindly and thoroughly explained possible moves and was generally more animated than ever before. It was like Borgov the Soviet Grandmaster was only a suit that Vasily the Human Chess Player had been hiding in that whole time. 

Unexpectedly flustered by the fact that she called him by name in her mind, Beth furrowed her brow and returned to the board immediately before he could sense her gaze on him. She'd gone over their very last meeting many times like she would over a particularly puzzling game but never really managed to come to a solid conclusion. Her recollection was blurry at best but Townes, her observant reporter friend with a keen eye for seemingly insignificant details, helped her find the missing pieces. Not that it made her own view any clearer but it put certain things in perspective, at least somewhat. The fact that it was Borgov who distracted her from drinking herself into a blackout and helped her get to her room safely, presumably risking his reputation of a perfect family man by doing so, evoked a strange feeling inside of her, somewhere by her diaphragm. She hadn't yet figured out the correct definition for it and it annoyed her. She didn't like uncertainty. 

"Shouldn't we go talk to her?" Georgi's now much lower voice cut through the relative silence that hung between them for a brief moment when it was his turn to move his pieces. Although Girev's apparent crush couldn't have possibly been lost on him, further supported by the fact that the boy had been looking over his shoulder from time to time, ostensibly hoping his mentor wouldn't notice, Borgov managed to show some level of surprise on his face.

"What for?" He gave his pupil a questioning look but pointed at the board with only his eyes, once again reminding him that they were still playing.

"Well..." Girev hesitated and focused briefly on the game. After moving his knight, he looked at his teacher timidly. "She's sitting there all alone and- I just think it's more beneficial to play against someone rather than yourself."

Vasily fixed his eyes on him for a few seconds but then suddenly smiled, albeit for a moment, involuntarily remembering himself at that age. "Go on then. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you. But don't linger - you have a game to finish."

"Won't you come with me?.."

"Georgi, you're seventeen. Do you really need me to hold your hand?" Borgov narrowed his eyes, visibly sceptical but still not wanting to hurt the boy's feelings. Although it was probably hard to believe, he was like that too, an eternity ago.

"No!" Despite Georgi's protest, his own ears betrayed him by turning red almost instantly. "No, I just-"

Vasily exhaled quietly. The prospect of meeting Beth Harmon after their awkward parting in Toronto filled him with unfamiliar anxiety - which he would never ever show, of course, especially not to the young man he accompanied for the first couple of days of the tournament. Unlike Beth herself, he managed to work out the correct name for it, or at least the one that would fit, standing on the balcony of his Moscovian flat, long after Galina had gone to sleep, and looking out into the uncaring darkness below, but it didn't grant him any solace. On the contrary, the word _"infatuation"_ coming to him when he would catch himself looking back at their last moments together, her face so close to his, her fingers burning through the layers of his suit as she gripped his arm for support, seemed shameful to him, embarrassing to the point of shaking - even if he wasn't pushed to act on it for some goddamn higher reason but chiefly so - but changing it to _"fascination"_ or even _"curiosity"_ inherently wouldn't fix anything. It was a weakness. _She_ was a weakness. But, as much as it pained him to admit it, he also genuinely cared about her and her future. He knew, of course, that helping Girev get ready for his first serious match of the tournament wasn't the only reason for him being sent to Buenos Aires and, while still at home, he even mentally prepared himself to have a serious discussion with Harmon, if nothing else. His family was safe, fortunately enough, but the inevitable _"for now"_ , suspended above his head like a sword, didn't let him sleep at night. However, now that he could see her sitting there, by the window, staring intensely at the board, half enveloped by the humid night air, half lit up by the absolutely ridiculous yet somehow suitable candlelight, his courage seemed long gone. In a way, he understood Georgi's fear completely. If anything, he felt it stronger.

"All right then, since it's so beneficial..." Rising up from his seat, Borgov made the sort of face that a dad would make before doing something he was coaxed into but secretly wanted to do himself in the first place. Georgi didn't need any persuading: he practically sprang up from his chair and hurried to the other side of the hall, unwittingly leading the way as if he didn't actually want his mentor to come with and only waited for the right moment.

Before she could see them approaching, Beth sensed Borgov's eyes on her like she always did. Although she didn't get to experience it terribly often, she was almost used to it by now and the feeling was confining and strangely comforting at the same time. She wasn't an exhibitionist by nature and didn't exactly enjoy being watched, now that she was aware of the KGB taking a keen interest in her thanks to Mr Booth, and yet, observed by Borgov, she felt... safe somehow. There was a certain quality to his eyes that made it seem like she was in no immediate danger as long as he was keeping those eyes on her, and even if it was patently untrue, she was unspokenly grateful for that.

"Miss Harmon." Girev stopped one step away from her chair and nodded reservedly but politely, keeping his excitement very much to himself. "An honour."

"Georgi!" Smiling radiantly, Beth stood up and shook his hand, ignoring his Soviet restraint. "I'm glad I got to see you before the game. And please, call me Beth. "Miss Harmon" sounds like I'm old enough to be your grandma." While the nervous Russian boy was mentally coming in terms with calling her simply by her first name, she couldn't help her eyes drifting slowly over to his chaperone. "Mr Borgov."

"Miss Harmon." He just nodded, his entire being an impenetrable castle as always. She could tell even by that short addressing that his r's were much softer now, more American. "Or should I call you Beth as well? You're certainly not old enough to be my grandmother."

She didn't know if that was a jab, a hint at her past immature behaviour in Toronto and pretty much everywhere they'd met - except Moscow where he was the one acting childishly - or a genuine question but frowned for a split-second just in case. The thought of him calling her _just Beth_ felt oddly invasive but she couldn't just deny him the same familiarity she granted to Girev mere moments ago.

"Sure." She smiled a little more hesitantly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I- We thought that you would like to have a real opponent, to prepare for the game." Georgi floundered but still managed to convey his desire to spend time with her, though not without dragging his mentor into it.

"What, am I not a real opponent?" Beth jokingly narrowed her eyes, unintentionally mirroring her archnemesis as the papers had taken to calling him. That had the poor boy properly blushing, so she softened instantly. "And anyway, is that not against the rules? We're playing next, remember?"

"Well-" Girev stumbled again, his puberty hitting him harder with more awkwardness than he could ever allow himself to express in front of a lady, and clung to the first solution he could think of. "Vasily Mikhailovich could play. He's not attending the tournament."

Vasily Mikhailovich raised his eyebrows slightly at the notion and gave his trainee the most expressive look of surprise Beth had ever seen on him, and although his bewilderment didn't seem exactly positive, the corners of her mouth curled up a bit from just watching them. For some reason, the short silent interaction shaped Borgov into a doting father to his son in her head. If she were to think about it, he was not only polite but nice to anyone she'd ever seen him with. His wife, obviously, his son, Luchenko, Girev, other players. He was even nice to her, in his own ways, when she won in Moscow, practically wiping the floor with him, and when she lost in Toronto. So what was it with him trying to appear so distant with her in particular? It couldn't have possibly been because she's a woman. No, not like that: she _hoped_ it wasn't because she's a woman, otherwise she would lose interest in him completely and she couldn't allow that to happen just yet.

"So what do you say, Mr Borgov?" Unexpected defiance in her tone, Beth finally looked straight at him, confident in her abilities but unafraid of a possible defeat.

The man smiled. The same way he did in Moscow, like he was honestly happy to see her shine, even though there were no stakes this time.

"Vasily," he corrected gently, looking at her just as intently. "Gladly."

Georgi quickly moved a couple more chairs to the window and took the one that stood closer to Beth's, as if by accident, leaving the other one, directly opposite, to Borgov. The game that Beth was replaying on her own had to be temporarily forgotten for them to play something else, so she started setting up the pieces into their original positions as a sort of host but didn't anticipate Vasily trying to help her. As their hands lightly bumped into each other over the board and hers felt immediately hot, she looked up at him quickly, secretly hoping to see some kind of reaction, maybe even similar to her own, but his face remained unmoving. Inexplicable embarrassment crept up on her almost immediately but she didn't say anything. 

She started off with the Larsen's opening and Vasily responded with the modern variation, advancing slowly but surely to the centre and playing classically for the first couple of moves, however, Beth was the first to deviate from what could've been the Paschmann Gambit.

"How are you finding the weather?" Still a bit discomposed after the sudden contact, she felt the need to change the subject, even though nobody was even thinking of mentioning it. "Must be different from Russia at this time of year."

"It depends on where you are in Russia." He followed the movement of his kingside rook with his eyes as he castled and only then lifted his head up a little to look at the opponent. The dark warm orange of the hall mixing with the icy blue of his eyes made them look green, turning him even more enigmatic, but she knew not to get distracted. "I suppose it's warmer than I'm used to but I'm only here for a couple of days and can't complain."

They sat in moderate silence, accompanied only by the general hum of the crowd around their nest but not paying them much attention, and Beth finally slowly relaxed as she castled with her kingside rook too, on her twelfth move, almost subconsciously mimicking Borgov but besting him at the same time. He didn't seem as intimidating now, in this virtually cosy setting, especially when it didn't matter if she won or lost, though she still tried not to look at his face too often. She noticed, now that the game wasn't timed and they didn't have to hurry, that he held each piece a little differently, although the distinction was practically imperceptible. While he handled the pawns sternly, as if he were a surgeon making precise cuts, he moved the kings and queens gentler, dragging them along the board with the appropriate level of grace for the royalty. It was an endearing trait by itself but in the context of the situation it softened the sharp lines of his silhouette, making her feel safer in his presence and more confident in her own victory.

"Should I visit sometime?" Advancing with her pawn to g4, Beth looked up at Vasily again, deceptively coy, almost kittenishly, which made poor Girev blush again as he was watching her more than the board.

He seemed momentarily confused, like she just blurted out some secret arrangement they'd made for everyone in the hall to hear, and, apropos of nothing, stumbled with his pawn to g6 instead of moving his knight. Georgi raised his eyebrows in utter puzzlement as the inaccuracy was evident even to him but didn't dare say anything against the master. Beth Harmon was aware of the power she wielded over men but didn't ever think, even for a second, that it could work on Vasily Borgov, the stoic - _and married_ \- red king that he was. Her triumph, however, quickly dissipated as she moved her rook to g3. He couldn't have done it because of her. It was likely just a misunderstanding on her part and maybe on his as well.

"Yes," he nodded lightly, moving his bishop into the same file. "Though Moscow may not be the best example."

She noticed Girev trying to suppress a smile and looked at him inquiringly, deep down ashamed of shifting the attention to him and putting him in front of her in the line of fire since he knew Borgov better. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He shook his head reservedly but then smiled anyway. "It's just that Vasily Mikhailovich doesn't like Moscow."

"Georgi." Borgov addressed him in Russian, sternly glancing up from the board.

The young man didn't elaborate on the matter but judging by his reaction Beth could tell that it was probably neither the first nor the hundredth time he'd heard his mentor discourse about the capital city. As a person from Lexingtonian suburbs, she could kind of understand Vasily's antipathy but most likely not for the same reasons. After all, despite everything they possibly had in common, their lives were diametrically different.

"Where should I go then? Leningrad?" Elegantly devouring his pawn on f6 and replacing it with her own, she looked up at Borgov again and caught him smiling faintly, to himself, at the mention of his birthplace. Seeing him smile felt... warm, although she still couldn't fully admit why, so she added: "I've heard it's a beautiful city."

"It is." He returned his attentive gaze to her after moving his king to the very corner of the board, to h8. Beth could tell by the thin layer of melancholy upon his eyes that he already sensed his inevitable demise but at the same time he didn't seem particularly saddened by it. He looked so relaxed in that chair, in spite of the heat and humidity, that her own breath slowed down just by looking at him. The feeling was so novel, alien, but soothing. "But I would suggest being in nature instead."

"So should I just... sit in the middle of a forest?" she asked with a small and quiet chuckle, half jokingly, after making him falter again - this time with a desperate attempt to move his pawn forward.

"Well... yes." Vasily just shrugged instead of moving his pieces, almost visibly pleased with the atmosphere they'd created, briefly averting his intent gaze to the view from the window. "You'll never see the same sunrise in a city as you would in a forest, sitting by a lake at five in the morning, when the whole sky is golden-pink and a layer of white fog cloaks the still water."

Before she could react to his vague attempt at sounding poetic, the lights flickered, then flickered again and finally illuminated the entire exhibition hall. Players and spectators alike scrambled to their previous positions while the electricity was still working, determined to finish off the day with at least another set of matches. Beth hurried too, eager to play Girev properly, but looked over her shoulder on her way to the table, finding Borgov's eyes in the crowd once again. She practically didn't have time to say goodbye or at least thank him for an interesting enough game. The realisation that she didn't even know if she'll see him again at this tournament made her heart skip a beat but she did her best to ignore it. She had to focus on beating Girev, there was no legitimate reason for her to get distracted by meaningless inclinations. And yet, the picture painted by him stuck with her for the rest of the day, even when the artist disappeared from her line of sight and into the crowd. 


	6. the german rebuttal (1970) I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, back to our regularly scheduled programming (kind of)

A muted click of a lighter, then another one; slowly breathing in the pacifying poison and equally slowly but shakily letting it out, burning the delicate mouth in the process. Smoking was the only addiction Beth still allowed herself to indulge in, and although she tried to abstain most of the time, she physically couldn't fight the urge anymore. She never admitted it out loud, but when she played at the US Open in Ohio, she partially agreed with Benny on the matter of the location and resources being frankly subpar. _The 19th Chess Olympiad in Siegen_ , however, was like a sobering slap in the face with a dish towel, starting with the fact that she could barely get in on the accommodation in Siegen itself and not some village with no proper roads and ending with practically being choked to death by the crowd. Of course, the idea of so many people turning up to see the tournament in general but also to watch her and her team play the Soviets specifically very gently scratched her ego behind the ear but the pressure of it was immense. The publicity, even when the reception was warm, like that time in Moscow, was her least favourite factor of playing chess competitively, and even though she always managed to hide her displeasure, by the time the preliminaries were dealt with and her team, along with the one from East Germany, qualified for Final A, she could feel her patience creaking, groaning under the sheer weight of the expectations placed on her and threatening to snap. Maybe, if she was alone, she would've lost it. But she wasn't alone. Benny Watts, the fucking pirate who infuriated her so much the first time she lost to him in Las Vegas, the smug bastard who promised not get under her skirt and then proceeded to fall for her, the friend who stayed up for hours to help her beat Borgov in Moscow, now stood by her side as a part of the US team in spite of his established nonconformity. The other four players she'd only met briefly, at those tournaments she attended kind of before her international fame even came to be, and they were strong, of course, more than ready to play at the olympiad, but she didn't care about them as much. Benny was her anchor here. Benny somehow found the time to look after her between his own games, to make sure she didn't do anything stupid. She wasn't quite the same rebellious young woman she was in Paris, when she needed to be minded by him the most, but she was grateful nonetheless. She was just as grateful, if not more, for the complete lack of tension between them. She was honestly expecting an awkward reunion, considering that their valediction didn't go particularly smoothly, but Benny was as nice as he could've been bearing in mind his usual mien. All in all, they agreed on keeping the terms exclusively friendly, at least for now, when both of them needed to focus on the task at hand.

Another long tremulous drag on her cigarette. Beth couldn't exactly say the conditions were unbearable. The hall at the Siegerlandhalle where the tournament took place was spacious, the ceilings were high enough to fit another floor, even the weather was quite pleasant for that time of year when it usually starts raining every other day again. However, the more time had passed since the beginning of the olympiad, the more people started flowing into the building to watch the events unfold. The attendees all sat close together, practically back to back, with a small corridor for the players and organisers to walk around by one hand and an insubstantial wooden barrier holding back an impassable wall of people by the other. _Argentina, France, Ecuador and Venezuela failed to send their applications in time but Panama withdrew, so Argentina managed to get in._ Wobbly, flimsy-looking tables, thin tablecloths creased from all sides, a million chess clocks ticking all around her. _Luchenko overslept, thus allowing Spain to win their only point in the second round by default._ Spectators literally breathing down her neck, murmuring to themselves, scratching their beards, fixing their clothes, tapping on the partition impatiently, complaining about it being hard to breathe. _An English player blundered and fainted at the board._ She felt like she was being boiled alive painstakingly slowly despite the windows in the hall being open to let in the chilly fresh air that smelled strongly of wet asphalt.

A cloud of smoke concealed her face, mirroring the gentle curls of her hair, as she closed her eyes. Beth saw him for the first time when the Soviets dominated Monaco in the third round - not a sensational victory, all things considered, but the first absolute one for their team. They'd been playing for two days by then but with the hall being rippled with barriers and the crowd preventing her from looking over to their side she physically couldn't see him before. And now she could. As soon as the mass of spectators started dispersing to watch the other remaining matches, she caught her breath as she felt his eyes on her and instinctively turned her head slightly to the side. Vasily Borgov stood with his hands in his pockets, not unlike a sturdy wall himself but with a barely visible granule of softness in his eyes, and watched her move the pieces. She dominated too. In fact, her whole team did that day, although she only learned that later from Benny. He didn't understand why she couldn't bring herself to pay attention while he humiliated the poor Brazilian team.

As it started raining again, Beth moved ever so slightly back under the roof, even though a part of her wanted to walk out and stand there, lift her face up to the sky and let the cold water ruin her makeup completely. They spoke briefly, in between their coinciding games. The agents still followed him, of course, and her very own Mr Booth was always somewhere around, but Borgov was tactful regardless of their overbearing presence. On those rare occasions when they would end up by the same window in search of some fresh air and share a moment of respite, Vasily was warm. She started referring to him simply by his first name out loud, not only in her mind, started slowly getting used to his voice, low and gentle, started to notice the little things, little mannerisms she never noticed before. She found his accent charming. She found the way he would sometimes get under the collar of his shirt with his fingertips while fixing his tie tempting. Now that her logical side was constantly working again, the unnerving realisation dawned on her by the time her last match of the preliminary rounds ended in a draw and she went to see him play. Naturally, she wanted to see the game, the opponent, the battle of the minds, wanted to glean something new as he'd been, apparently, reinventing his style in the past couple of years, getting ready for their inevitable collision at some point in the future. But apart from that, she wanted to see _him_. The desire blossomed in her mind, festering, poisoning it, prickling in the back of her head and turning the bones in her legs into cotton wool, and she almost fainted from the sudden rush of emotion like that English player but managed to keep her composure. Yet, as soon as the match ended - also in a draw - she practically stormed out of the hall, inconspicuously enough for the others but still attracting Benny's attention.

"Okay, now you're legally obligated to explain."

The sound of her friend's voice startled Beth and nearly made her drop the remainder of her cigarette but she just smiled a little, almost offhandedly.

"What?" She didn't exactly look flustered but felt like she did and instinctively tried to hide her face in her own hair by not turning to him completely.

"Whatever's been going on with you, I mean... I know you're not drinking but you look drunk."

"I don't know what you're talking about." That time she even succeeded in appearing unperturbed - or at least she thought that she succeeded as Benny's face remained unchanged.

"Yeah, well, you say that but I don't believe you for some reason." He narrowed his eyes a tiny bit, still oblivious to the real reason behind her inner torment but simultaneously looking like he'd known it the whole time and only waited for her to crumble.

"I don't know..." She exhaled the residual smoke and put out her cigarette, chucking the rest of it in the trash can. "I guess I'm just a little scared."

"Of the Soviets, I assume?"

"Not _the Soviets_. Borgov." His name on her lips almost caused another burn but she didn't let it show, instead just crossing her arms in front of her and absentmindedly rolling around a small pebble on the ground with the tip of her shoe. She even forced a quiet chuckle. "I don't think I'm gonna be playing Luchenko here."

"Yeah, that one's my Moby Dick." Benny just nodded, although she could tell by his eyes that he wasn't actually being serious.

"Is he now?" Beth grasped at the first diversion she could see and clung to it with a sarcastic expression on her face. "So weird that he never mentions you..."

"He's just discreet about our rivalry, mind your own business." He mocked in retort and then, after a short pause, finally turned to face her. "And you're changing the subject again."

She could feel her cheek beginning to boil up under the elegant wave of rust-coloured hair but just shook her head nonchalantly. "What subject? I've already told you-"

"Yeah, yeah, sure you did. But you forget one thing: I know how you look when you're scared. And this?" He gestured vaguely in her direction, a careless sketch of her silhouette in the air. "This ain't it."

Beth sighed soundlessly, the little muscles in her neck visibly twitching beneath the collar of her blouse. The final straw. She heard that expression many a time in her life but only applied it to herself in specific situations, wanting to think that she, as an orphan, had a virtually unlimited reserve of strength and patience. She had been wrong, of course, just as many times. Her own back wasn't unbreakable, and now, under Benny's shrewd, adamant gaze, she could feel her metal armour gradually turning into clay and falling apart, piece by pathetic piece, leaving the gossamer centre exposed and vulnerable. She tried to hold the pieces, put them back together, but they turned to terracotta dust in her hands. Even if she was wrong, it still felt like he could see right through her, so there was not point in hiding it anymore. Neither from Benny Watts nor from herself.

"Benny..." She looked up at him, both defiant and ashamed of her entire self. Her eyes weren't red but she seemed ready to tear up at any point.

"Woah, what all this? What, now you're gonna tell me you have a crush on him or something?" Benny's anxiously knitted eyebrows slowly relaxed, then moved up and up, realisation painting his face in vivid colours with the one that signified surprise being the most prominent of all. "Wait... Beth."

"Benny," she repeated, desperate to stop him but hopeless at the same time.

"Beth!" He furrowed his brow again, now borderline furious, though he clearly had no right to feel that way, even considering their short-lived fling. "Beth, what the fuck?"

"Benny, I'm playing him in less than a week and I would really appreciate it if you let me live at least in relative peace by then." She put her hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him, reason with him, but he didn't even bother to listen, consumed by his own partially bitter amusement and puzzlement.

"Yeah, but you're aware he's married, right? And that he has a kid?"

"Perfectly, thank you-" She tried to hide the fact that even mentioning them out loud, so matter-of-factly, sent stinging electric spasms all over her body - and not even of jealousy but rather of envy - but she could as well have stayed completely silent.

"And that he's super fucking old?" he continued without missing a beat, thus earning yet another exasperated sigh. "Like, what- twenty years older or something like that? And that's completely looking over the fact that he's the very World Champion you're supposed to be dreaming of tearing apart."

"Any other news?" Beth turned to him fully at last, her lips pursed in irritation, and looked at him bellicosely until he finally regained his temper. They stood in silence, wordlessly staring at each other as if over a board, but there were no pieces other than themselves. Benny could technically try to play some other gambit, drag out more details he secretly wanted to know for whatever reason, be it possessiveness, insecurity or, on the contrary, a pure and innocent desire to protect her from a possible international scandal, but she wouldn't have yielded. Even now that he knew - _that they both knew_ \- she was desperate to advance after a momentary blunder.

"Hey, I'll let you live." Benny lightly pushed her shoulder with his own and once again turned to face the street, now soaked through with rainwater. "But you gotta stop that, alright? Don't let your feelings get the best of you. You can't let him win, it's too important."

"Do I look like someone who gets _affected by feelings_?" She raised her eyebrows with unfounded scepticism.

"Do you genuinely want me to answer that?"

"Not really," Beth murmured, frowning a little again. The pebble she was rolling around scratched the perfect leather tip of her brand new shoe. Benny was right: in their entire team, she was the tempestuous one and that could cost them some precious points if she wasn't careful with her blooming affection. But she was also competitive to the core - which, to be fair, could be interpreted as a fault as well, however, at the moment it seemed to be the only connective tissue between her new infatuated self and Grandmaster Harmon who came here to prove herself worthy of becoming the next World Champion. "Don't worry, I won't let him win this time."


	7. the german rebuttal (1970) II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for reference:  
> \- the main match is a spassky vs fischer game (game 15 of the 1972 world chess championship to be exact). as always, i'm literally just translating what's happening on the board to the best of my ability but, then again, if you wanted clever analysis, you probably wouldn't be reading this right now  
> \- i know that [the tango from agony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1MdpMUgioB4) technically postdates the timeline of the fic by some years, so even though there were many complications in the making of the film that prevented it from being released in the 60s, there's no way it could've been played at that dinner, but i really like it, so i'm going to use it and there's nothing you can do about it 
> 
> sorry for the monster chapter, lads, but i thought that making it into two parts would've felt weird. anyway, enjoy probably the most cliche thing you could ever find in the beth/borgov tag!

Beth hid behind the doorframe, her own blood pulsing in her ears, and watched the crowd while their table was being set up. This time the hall wasn't silent and half-empty - thousands of people showed up just to see them play. She didn't know how many of them loved her, how many of them wanted her to lose, how many of them simply wished to break the monotony by witnessing a historical event. She knew, however, that every single part of this humming, writhing mass was here for them at least to some degree. Benny even got a bit jealous, though it was most likely just the atmosphere itself that made him feel pressured. For her, that feeling was doubled. It wasn't nervousness before the big game exactly - although she could definitely feel her knees tremble every time she shifted in place - rather the amplitude of the stakes. Everyone was aware of her desire to challenge the Russian to fight for the title in the future and because of that everyone will judge her as the prospective World Champion, not a faceless part of the US team. She couldn't lose. Not because she promised Benny Watts but for her own sanity. If she loses now, in front of a stadium's worth of people, with cameras in their eyes and microphones in their ears, sharp-toothed, snickering, she will lose herself. She will spiral again but this time her birthmother will be closer than her friends.

She saw the crowd liven up before anything else but the all-familiar burning sensation on the back of her neck made her turn ever so slightly to the side. Borgov, preserved in his dark grey woollen armour, walked confidently into the hall accompanied by his teammates. Luchenko's whole face lit up as his eyes met Beth's but he just nodded and continued walking. Vasily only glanced in her direction once as they were passing by but not at her.

"C'mon." Benny, suddenly appearing out of nowhere as if he popped out of the wooden floor tiles and unintentionally startling her again, gently but firmly put his hand on her shoulder. "Let's give 'em hell."

Femininely lethal in her powder pink dress, Beth approached the table with queenlike grace and stopped by her chair. The led in her imperceptibly shaking hand made it difficult to greet her opponent but Borgov supported it with his own, enfolding her elegant fingers with impermissible tenderness. How strange, she thought to herself, that no one else in that moment could even consider the possibility of him being so subtly delicate while she wasn't expecting anything but that. To others, the handshake was solid, genteel and brief; to her - the very signal Mr Booth warned her about on their way to the Moscow Invitational. Unexpectedly, she gave him a faint smile lightly tinged with something that tasted like disappointment at the fact that there wasn't actually a secret behind his cordial greeting. Borgov didn't smile but the icy blue of his eyes warmed through just enough for her to catch it. They nodded to each other reservedly and sat down at the opposite sides of the board. Barely a minute after the clock was started.

Pawn to e4. Starting with the Sicilian wasn't unusual for Borgov as he was, after all, the master of it but Beth couldn't help but feel like it was a jab at her since she favoured the opening, even despite it being associated with some of her tremendous losses in the past. Unlike in their previous matches, he kept looking at her over the board, still impassively but with a sparkle of curiosity only visible at certain angles. Apart from being a well-oiled strategical mechanism, he was a brilliant judge of character as well. Being so withdrawn allowed him to conserve his strength and instead turn a significant amount of it to studying his opponents. It didn't really matter how many times he actually looked at her, how much emotion he showed on his own face, as he was constantly working on the psychological portrait of his adversary. But Beth was aware of that by now as the whole time they'd known each other she studied him too. She didn't let him lull her into the false sense of security by using a classic move and kept playing the main line of the Najdorf Variation, steadily turning him away from risking both of their positions on the board by, frankly, quite obviously going for the Poisoned Pawn. Moving his queen to g3, however, assured her of his unyielding confidence. She sensed, somewhere deep inside, that castling wasn't her greatest decision - the palpable, damp murmur of disagreement slithering in between the featureless spectators made her palms clammy - but she couldn't see a better option yet.

Beth sacrificed a pawn on g7, planning counterplay, and Borgov's matte white queen took it immediately, which was quite a good move in and of itself but felt, once again, like some sort of deception on his part. It couldn't have possibly been that easy. She was undoubtedly a phenomenal player but so was Vasily Borgov and taking her bait seemed like a mockery. She looked up at him momentarily and their eyes met. His assertive serenity was infuriating but, as much as her recklessness was one of her main weaknesses, it finally erased her inability to fully concentrate on the game under the weight of a myriad of distractions all around her. He didn't seem smug to anyone but her.

Harmon continued to play as if she hadn't just lost her pawn and even improved the positions of some of her pieces but with his pawn to g3 on the nineteenth move Borgov tipped the scales in his favour. She quickly cut him off on his way to a possible win in nine more moves but slid a little closer to the edge of her seat when he pushed his rook across the whole board, to d8, thus having her king in check. His next move, though, was an evident inaccuracy and she managed to catch the minuscule change in his expression. He wasn't sure but couldn't see why exactly - she knew it by the way his eyebrows twitched, by the way he blinked, as if from a sudden flash of bright light. It was almost endearing but she brushed it off immediately. She had an opportunity to attack. The scales were equal once again.

Queen takes pawn on h5 on move twenty-nine - the oversight, if it was even that, was too dramatic, too unjustified for a player like Borgov. King to c1 on move thirty-one - he was openly scowling by then. Pawn to a4 on move thirty-three - pure desperation. Check. Their positions on the board changed rapidly but the cause of it was yet unknown.

Beth stumbled for the second time in the game with her rook to d8 but the attention was drawn away, again, by Vasily shifting his king to b3. He sheltered it on a3 a move later but the damage was done.

Rook to b2, queen to a1. Check. Rook to a1, queen to c1. Check. Rook to b2, queen to a1. _Check._ She looked up at him, her brow equally furrowed, annoyed by the display he had her witness, but only saw an unmoving figure made of stone. The chase on five squares was ridiculous, genuinely laughable, and it would've irritated her even more if she had been playing someone else but it was Borgov. The same Borgov who stepped away from the spotlight in Moscow, smiling, happy to be defeated. The fact that she couldn't clearly see the reason for his inconsistency got under her skin more than him not allowing her the win. Her team was leading by half a point and this particular victory could've secured it, considering that Luchenko was somehow still a wildcard in the literal sense of the word, but continuing the game and running after his rook, since he apparently wasn't planning on using any other pieces, would've been humiliating. For both of them.

"Draw." She didn't even try to make it sound like a question. Her voice was quiet but not to spare his self-esteem. She wanted to punch him in the face but pushed the button on the clock instead. 

Borgov glanced at her, squinting a little, contemplating, but then silently nodded and quickly jotted down the equal sign on his score sheet. Beth did the same. When he reached out from across the board and offered her his hand to shake, she lingered, considering, wanting to just walk away and leave him hanging, but decided to be courteous for the benefit of her own public image and took it, squeezing his fingers tightly. Perhaps, in many ways she was still a child, but today's match only reaffirmed the fact that Borgov wasn't flawless either. There were things he didn't like, possibly things he was afraid of and both of those interchangeable lists included losing. Maybe specifically losing to Elizabeth Harmon. Either way, his behaviour was uncharacteristic, to say the least, but at the moment she couldn't bring herself to stay and interrogate him, knowing full well she might explode and tell him things she'd rather die than admit. Before he could say anything - although, despite their precarious camaraderie that had blossomed during the tournament against all odds, she still doubted he would want to talk to her so openly - she rose up from her seat and walked over to Benny's table. It was evident by then, seemingly to everyone's great surprise, that Luchenko was going to destroy him.

"So what about that hell you were going to give 'em?" Beth scoffed quietly, a cynical cadence in her voice, as her friend left his chair and approached her.

"I mainly meant you." Benny narrowed his eyes and forced his hands into his jeans pockets, ignoring the knife getting in the way. He still wore those ludicrous clothes, even to the olympiad. "But look at you - not the one to judge either, so what gives?"

She sighed heavily and shook her head, red waves swaying gently from side to side. 

"I don't know what happened... I thought I had him but he just kept- dancing around with his rook, thinking he could get away."

"Yeah, I heard that much." There were no scoreboards, presumably due to the lack of free space, so the only way for him to know how Beth's game was going was the literal word of mouth. "Hey, maybe he got flustered in the presence of his white queen, huh?"

"Hey, maybe I should kick you in the balls?" She knitted her eyebrows tartly. "That oughtta entertain the audience more than you just did here with Luchenko."

"Aight, I got it, shutting up." Benny put his hands up, indicating his defeat.

As soon as she mentioned Luchenko, her slightly eccentric Russian friend walked up to them, barely managing to push through the crowd unscathed. Despite the apparent professional and political charge between their respective teams, she was always happy to see the older gentleman as every time they played or communicated in some way he was nothing but courtly with her, so she gladly gave him her hands in greeting.

"Ah, Miss Elizabeth! Please, excuse my incivility. I never meant to walk past you without saying hello but, I'm afraid, my current reputation here wouldn't have allowed me to stop and chat with you."

"Don't be sorry, Lev Borisovich, I understand." She shook her head again, beaming without realising it. "Congratulations on the win, by the way! I've only seen the last couple of moves but you were brilliant."

"You flatter me, my dear." Luchenko chuckled softly and glanced at Benny, who, in turn, was eyeing Beth with the face of a betrayed friend. "I hope you weren't scolding Mr Watts. His technique was superb but my performance at the tournament so far has put me in a certain position."

"I know." She quickly looked at Benny too, to see if his displeasure was too obvious, but she also knew that he was usually far more composed and mature when it came to admitting defeat. "I'm sure Mr Watts will get over it eventually."

Some man in a bright stripy shirt bumped into Luchenko and apologised offhandedly, clearly having no idea who he was, which, although he remained as urbane as ever and didn't make a scene out of it, was probably a display of great impoliteness in his eyes.

"Miss Harmon, would you, perhaps, agree to carry our conversation over to a quieter place?" Lev Borisovich checked his watch briefly. "My friends and I, along with some other players, were thinking of exploring the local cuisine a little more before the tournament ends. I'm certain everybody would be happy to see you and I, myself, have so many things to talk to you about."

"Oh, I'm..." The mere idea of going to a restaurant - and she knew it was going to be a high-end establishment because it's the Soviets - with a whole bunch of players who might want to see if she's still a drunk for themselves filled Beth with dread but she only allowed herself a small polite smile. She trusted Luchenko as he already had his opportunities to compromise her and never used them but she wasn't so sure about others. Or about herself for that matter. Her eyes drifted involuntarily over to Benny. "I mean, I'd love to, if your friends won't mind..."

"Nonsense! If anybody dares to disagree with you being there, I will be the first to throw them out." Luchenko shook his head vigorously but softened immediately, smiling at her again. "I assume your teammates won't be as willing to join us?"

"I'll join." Benny stepped forward both figuratively and literally as the crowd of spectators still enveloped them from all sides, seemingly planning to look after her again but also partially fascinated with the idea of dining with the Soviets - a thing he had clearly never done before or at least not in the same context.

"Excellent, dear boy. Then we'll see each other then and there..." Lev Borisovich produced a pen and paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and quickly scribbled the precise address of the restaurant. Why he couldn't just say it, she didn't know. Maybe his German wasn't as great as his English or maybe he just wasn't good with directions. "Will two hours be enough?"

"More than enough." Beth simply nodded in agreement and smiled as Luchenko pressed her hand between his before making his way towards the exit.

Having followed him to the doors with only his eyes, Benny turned to her again, thinking that he should probably be wounded by the nickname but still amused by the whole interaction. _"Dear boy."_

"The two hours are for you to change." She gave him a telling look-over, hinting at the mismatch of their styles. 

"Never gonna happen." 

The company at the restaurant met them with a general air of cheeriness, although Beth couldn't help but sense an aura of hostility being exuded by the two Canadian players they'd already met with some two days ago, in the fourth round, despite them playing to a draw with two full points going to both teams. Thankfully, all the others and especially the Soviets were affable enough for her and Benny to feel welcomed. The restaurant itself was far from empty but the parlour they sat in might as well have been reserved only for Lev Borisovich and his friends, with only a few other people in different corners, which she honestly didn't mind as the constant feel of the crowd surrounding her at all times was already driving her up the wall. Sitting safely, comfortably and sober between Luchenko and Benny and watching them bond, ridiculously, over their own unconventionality, she also didn't mind that Borgov wasn't there, although a small, almost insignificant part of her regretted that he couldn't see her in the pretty chiffon dress she was wearing, flowy and black, contrasting beautifully with the red of her hair. The realisation singed her innards with an unfortunate reminder: he was married. Even if they weren't who they were and the age difference wasn't so weighty in the public eye, he was still married and still had a child. She never wished to be a mistress - to anyone, really - but that couldn't possibly compare to stealing someone's dad. Beth didn't know her own father, neither Mr Wheatley nor that other one who left her before she even learned his name, but Borgov's son certainly did. She could tell, judging by those times she briefly saw them together between games, that they had a connection, their own special world she could never ever claim to be a part of. That's not to say, though, that she, even fleetingly, entertained the idea of separating Vasily and his wife who was evidently a staple of that world. No, Benny was right once again and she had to admit it, even if it was just in her head, regardless of how uncomfortable it made the childishly capricious side of her. She could express her competitiveness wherever she wanted but not there. Borgov wasn't a game contained within a humanoid exterior, he wasn't a position on the board, wasn't a prize she could win. He was off limits.

"Thinking about the game, I presume?"

Beth looked around a little aimlessly: Benny was on the other end of the table, speaking to one of the Canadians. Luchenko leaned in a little closer so that he didn't have to raise his voice, what's with the music and his other guests discussing something enthusiastically, but didn't even consider invading her personal space.

"I guess you could say that." She smiled faintly, not wanting to appear unmannerly but suddenly not in the mood to participate in collective merrymaking. It was honestly so stupid how quickly she could wind herself up with her own internal conclusions.

"Oh, please, don't get too upset about the results, Miss Elizabeth. I'm sure you've played magnificently."

"You're too kind as always, Lev Borisovich." She smiled again but this time more genuinely. "I wasn't magnificent but I was quite good. Good enough to win at least, and Mr Borgov- well..."

"Mr Borgov isn't here yet, you can speak freely with me." Seeing her hesitation, he narrowed his eyes conspiratorially.

"I just don't understand the change in character." She shrugged, ignoring the _"yet"_ part for now. "You've known him longer, so you tell me: does he only ever allow himself to win?"

Luchenko smiled once more, his wisdom resting quietly on the lines in the outer corners of his eyes, and slowly leaned away, to the back of his chair.

"Everybody deals with defeat differently as they go about their lives. As a serious chess player, you must know that it might be a crushing feeling, and the higher you are in the hierarchy, the farther away is the ground you might fall on at any point in your career if you don't keep yourself in shape. Or if you get careless like some other people I would prefer not naming for the sake of keeping the metaphor ephemeral enough." He chuckled huskily and Beth couldn't tell if he was speaking about her. She didn't feel offended either way. "The point is, no matter how many walls you strategically built around yourself, regardless of your personal stance on the social importance of chess players, we are still dependent on certain kinds of success. When you enter the world of competitive playing, you must be ready to allow yourself to feel momentarily vulnerable, so that you will not get stuck in the rut of your own creation and instead channel your various emotions on the matter of losing to making sure it doesn't happen again."

Listening to his voice was hypnotising and he spoke of all the right things but she still didn't entirely understand what he was getting at, which must've been written on her face, evident by his sceptical smile.

"When I met Vasily for the first time, he was about your age or, perhaps, even younger but even then he dealt with defeat with the nobility of a king. I hope he will forgive me my almost scientific curiosity but that made me fascinated with the idea of seeing him lose his composure. For years I've studied him when we played together and when he played others but the walls never fell - which was not a bad thing in and of itself, but I kept wondering where does he keep those emotions I've mentioned earlier. He continued improving but I never quite managed to fully grasp what was going on inside that head of his. Until I saw him play with you." Beth felt her heart sink to her stomach but didn't say anything or even emote in any way, desperate to keep her equanimity. "In Moscow, to be specific. Ah, yes... then I saw it. He was shaken up, even wounded, but also, by all means, transfixed. At first, I thought it was your talent that made him look over those walls but - and I hope you will forgive me as well - there had been many other talented chess players in his life and none of them awakened the same feelings in him as I saw that day. Now, even with my years weighing me down I can't quite tell why it is you specifically, besides, he may have... other reasons I'm not in the position to reveal but one thing I've learned for certain: you, my dear, might just be the very key to his undoing."

The more he spoke about the things she didn't see, the more uneasy Beth felt. She was aware, of course, that everything Lev Borisovich had described could be easily written off as anxiety, presumably caused by her being a solid contender for the title of World Champion, but Borgov was not an easy man. If even his friend of approximately over twenty years was struggling to make sense of him, it couldn't have possibly been that simple. She knew, however, that no matter how intoxicating the idea of him having some sort of reciprocal feelings seemed to her, she couldn't give in to her addiction, even metaphorically.

"I don't know what to say..." Her own voice broke abruptly, so she reached for her glass - just water this time - hoping to either ease off the aftermath or at least use it as a material anchor and conceal the fact that her fingers were trembling, but didn't have time to actually bring it to her mouth as the doors opened and the very man she simultaneously wanted and didn't want to see here walked into the parlour, accompanied by the host. He was completely alone, with no agents in sight, which seemed unusual by itself. The situation reminded her too much of that time they dined - or rather tried to dine in Moscow. She didn't need reiterating.

"I would be most grateful if you didn't, my dear," Luchenko practically whispered, briefly leaning in to her again as if they were sharing a secret, but then was instantly illuminated by his own geniality. "Vasily, at last!"

"Forgive my unpunctuality, Leva" Borgov addressed his friend in Russian and Beth immediately got a little nervous. "I got... distracted on the way." Seeing that the only other place by Lev Borisovich was taken by another Russian player, he hesitated but didn't want to sit across the table from his comrade and, seemingly for that reason alone, reluctantly took the chair next to the young American grandmaster.

"Vasily." She'd heard from Luchenko before that Russians don't usually greet one another starting with the name but this formality appeared to be the one solid thing she had left and so she held onto it as tight as she could in the moment. "Was it the fans that slowed you down?"

"Not the fans, no." He responded with a faint polite, almost forced smile but didn't dare to look at her just yet. Regardless, Beth suddenly felt hot in the face due to the short distance between them and decided for herself that she liked the reserved Borgov a little more than the chivalrous version of him who kissed her hand as a greeting when they saw each other for the first time in Canada. At least she could relax a bit when he tried not to look at her - for whatever reason. "I see Luchenko's charms are working again."

"He's irresistible."

Thinking that she had to be the more composed one out of the two of them, especially considering she had never shown him more interest than to any other player, at least not prominently, and thus had nothing to be ashamed of, except for her thoughts, she half-turned to look at him. Their eyes met for a moment and she physically felt her heart contract in her chest. She'd been closer to other people many times in her life, yet the nearness of him was more distressing and tantalizing at the same time than she had ever experienced. She didn't register the exact second the music started playing - quiet and somehow foreign, although she couldn't tell what origin it could've possibly had - but it provided and temporary diversion to both of them. Some people in their serene parlour started standing up from the tables, including their own, and relocating to that part of it where there was enough space for dancing. The display seemed a bit amusing but entertaining nonetheless, though she kept returning her gaze involuntarily to Vasily. Despite his robotic surface, he appeared to have been captivated by the sight of his fellow chess players spinning around the room.

"Never thought I'd see Mr Smyslov dance," Beth murmured absentmindedly with her eyes fixed specifically on the other Russian player.

"You should listen to him sing," Borgov replied, equally pensive, and then finally allowed himself to look not just in her direction but at her. "Do you wish to join them?"

She blinked.

"With- you?" She didn't mean for the tone of the question she posed to be nearing on insulting but only doubled down on it out of the sheer abnormality of such a prospect. "You dance?"

"Sometimes." He just shrugged, unoffended, as if the proposal wasn't out of character for him, then rose from his seat and offered her his hand.

Beth stared at it in disbelief. The music was gradually growing louder, more intense, and her own head was spinning with it. It was a tango. Not an unassuming waltz or an amicable foxtrot - somehow, out of all the possible dances, he chose the one where they had to be the closest to each other for it to be even considered a suitable performance. Of course, no one was going to score them on their technique or agility but to phone it in would frankly be a waste. She slowly looked up at him, still glued to her chair, and he seemed like a giant. There was that indiscernible glint in his eyes again and she didn't know what to do with herself. Those at their table were completely silent but she couldn't hear it over her own heart beating in her throat.

"Sure." She reached out, her brow furrowed, and hesitantly placed her delicate hand in his. She was certain her knees were going to give out but his grip on her hand, although gentle, was firm enough to stop her from falling. As they walked away from the table and joined the others, Benny's gaze on her back was practically tangible.

Having settled in an empty spot in between the leisurely swaying pairs, Beth shifted her hand in his so that their palms were touching. The other one she put on Borgov's shoulder, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his jacket as his own hand drifted slowly up her waist, enveloping her, pulling her closer. She exhaled shakily, feeling their very hearts thrumming against each other as they stood there, seemingly for an eternity, until the melody began a new cycle and he made the first step. It was evident he was going to lead but she didn't protest - it was his idea, after all - and stepped backwards unsteadily. Another step, then another, spin. Fuck, she couldn't even look him in the eyes.

"I never did thank you for what you did for me in Canada," she blurted out unprompted, too unnerved by the situation she found herself in. It probably would've been more elegant if they just danced, wordlessly, but that threatened to snap her in two like she was a porcelain doll. Another slow spin. Luchenko's bewildered eyes somewhere by the table. Borgov's eyes on her - so close, she only needed to look up. And so she did, quivering from the unfamiliar intimacy. "I hope you didn't get in trouble."

"I didn't do anything." His attentive, piercing blue focused on her, at first it seemed he was trying to signal her not to mention it to anyone - which was most likely true but it also wasn't all of it. Now that their eyes locked, she couldn't look away, even as she felt his fingers move on her back through several insubstantially thin layers of chiffon. No, there was something different written in them. He was telling her she helped herself. How humbly untrue.

Moving her heeled feet across the dark wooden flooring and speeding up as the music continued loudening, Beth realised how strange it must've looked to the others that they didn't stumble and trip over each other's shoes. It was strange to her too - she never learned to dance like this - but it was as if Vasily had hypnotised her and granted her the ability to plan several steps ahead. Come to think of it, dancing was a lot like chess in that regard. Although, when she was playing chess, she didn't strictly have to look at him, didn't have to feel his hands on her, his body moving against hers. She was safe with the sixty-four squares separating them and here, in his arms, she wasn't, though that small childish part of her enjoyed the taste of the forbidden fruit on her tongue.

"You shouldn't blame her. Cleo." He considered something silently but didn't voice it. "Everyone has their own ways to survive."

"I don't blame her." She shook her head almost defiantly, suddenly brazen at the mention of her almost lover, as if trying to challenge him. The fact that he knew the French woman by name somehow went over her head entirely. She was getting sloppy again, distracted by her own desire to decipher him and missing an unknown gambit in the process. "Everything I've done to myself I've done alone. She never forced me. Even when manipulated people can still... make an effort to resist and I didn't. It's not her fault." Perhaps, she secretly wished for him to say it's not her fault either but he just smiled faintly and lowered his gaze for a moment. It was better that way. She needed to learn.

With their hands still clasped tightly, Vasily spun her around as the melody crescendoed once more, the skirts of her dress a black enchanting mist, and embraced her again. Step forward. With her back resting against his chest, Beth felt his heart beating just as fast somewhere between her shoulder blades. Another. Their fingers were momentarily intertwined and his arm was pressing her own closer to her petite frame. Another. She closed her eyes.

"You've grown." His voice, a little raspy yet warm, felt so close to her face, almost caressing it, but he stepped away and spun her around again, meeting her face to face. She was afraid of losing balance, losing control over her body from her own emotions tearing her apart from the inside, but managed to cling to his shoulder in time.

"Not at all a creepy thing to say to a woman half your age." Beth mocked - one of her most favoured defence mechanisms, even now that her own mouth and mind refused to cooperate - and for a second Vasily appeared to not understand the word correctly but then just looked at her sceptically.

"You know what I meant."

"Yeah." She smiled at last, the corners of her lips twitching a little, and looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Was that your attempt at making a compliment?"

"I'm not a flatterer." His mouth, unexpectedly inches away from hers even though they were both spinning, fell slightly open, in spite of him apparently trying to ignore her own careless attempt at flirting.

"Clearly," she uttered, partially annoyed at his unyielding composure but mostly trying to concentrate on his eyes and on saying actual words instead of giving in to the shamefully evident impulse. "Why didn't you let me win?"

Borgov clenched his jaw and unwittingly pressed her even closer, though the distance between them had already been nonexistent for a while.

"Why would I do that?"

"Tact." Beth raised her eyebrows wanting to be sharp, wanting to bite him before the closeness melted her completely, but it felt unconvincing even to her.

"Tact has nothing to do with this."

"Why?"

"Because it's different with you-"

"Don't!" Before he could even try to add anything else - though she doubted he could bring himself to explain his involuntary confession - Beth stopped Vasily by covering his mouth with her fingers. His lips burned her sensitive skin for several long seconds. They weren't spinning anymore. They weren't alone in the parlour - out of nowhere, people, silent and perplexed, started appearing all around them. Were they laughing at her? Were they whispering something, mocking her behind her back? Or maybe she just persuaded herself to think that they were? She felt sick regardless.

Holding a hand over her stomach in the place where something fluttered uncomfortably inside it, Beth turned around and rushed towards the exit without saying another word.


	8. the german rebuttal (1970) III

_"Dear Miss Harmon,_

Vasily furrowed his brow and pressed his lips into a thin discontented curve. No, that wouldn't do. Too familiar, perhaps even intimate. It's not like they'd shared the kind of connection that would allow him to address her in such a way but he hadn't seen her in almost three months by now, which made it even more unacceptable.

The music hadn't stopped when Beth Harmon ran away from that restaurant in Siegen, from him, but it felt like his heart did, albeit for a beat. He stood there, dumbstruck, a lithic exterior with a raging fire in the very centre, while those at their table who knew him as an emotionless chess master and a married man tried to make sense of the scene. Once again he wanted the floor to come apart and the earth under him to swallow him whole just so that he wouldn't have to look them all in the eyes. Nobody, not one of them, except maybe Lev, knew who he was but every single one thought it acceptable to judge him in that moment. He could easily see how it could've been misinterpreted: a man in his forties whose ego was wounded at the olympiad tried to chase after a woman half his age, be it for the sake of his own self-esteem not being shattered or to compromise her in petty retaliation, but crossed the line and made an even bigger fool of himself. In a way, it wasn't a complete miss but his own sense of right and wrong desperately tried to dissociate the truth from the incomplete picture.

"Whatever have you done to my dear Miss Harmon, Vasily?" Luchenko, still flummoxed, quietly approached him and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Ruined my life, it feels like." Borgov just sighed, almost soundlessly, too mortified to turn and face his friend.

There was a theatrical pause between them while Lev contemplated something inwardly, connecting the dots and making his own conclusions on the matter.

"Well, in that case, I advise you strongly to go and fix it." In response to Vasily's surprised inquiring look, the older gentleman only nodded. "I'm not going to ask you what happened just now as you might not have the time required," he glanced emphatically in the direction of Benny Watts, Beth's younger teammate with an appearance of a cartoonishly stereotypical American but with the determination of a man in love, "but you will have to explain yourself later. Don't make me regret this."

Having warned him with a raised forefinger, Luchenko returned to the table before the young man in a leather coat could stand up and interrogate the possible offender. Borgov remembered to thank him at some point in the future and immediately used his chance to flee.

_"Miss Harmon,_

He crossed the words out with a quiet grunt as his eyes drifted over to a tangerine, humble in size and slightly damaged by the cold, that Seryozha had put on his writing desk before going to bed. New Year's Day was his boy's favourite holiday, as was the case with most children in the country, and despite him slowly turning into a rebellious teenager, he made sure to remind his father of the fact that he was at home, not still in Germany.

Beth was nowhere to be seen but Borgov's driver was patiently waiting on the other side of the road. He already knew the right address. As they arrived at the hotel where the US team was staying, he noticed a car he had seen before, several times by the windows of his own room, and knitted his brow anxiously but didn't ask to go after them - it was evident they were watching her too, and he could only hope that was the extent of it.  
Once inside, the seemingly erstwhile ruffled concierge got even more apprehensive at the sight of the daunting, angular driver with a thick Russian accent but eventually complied and phoned Miss Harmon's room, however, to no avail. Already on edge after recognising the car outside, Vasily didn't wait for the concierge to put the receiver down the second time and promptly made his way to her room. It would dawn on him much later that he didn't actually know the number, though in the meantime he somehow managed to guess where he needed to go. The door was opened a crack but he lingered at the threshold, hesitating before raising his hand to knock.

"Fuck, what do I do?!" He heard Beth's panicked voice from the inside and froze on the spot for a second, listening in on the muffled conversation. There was a man in her room but he didn't sound like any of her teammates or that reporter - from Chess Review, as he learned after Canada.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Harmon..." Borgov started but never finished, suddenly entirely too self-aware, ashamed of his own presence that had brought her so much discomfort.

A pause. Then sounds of agitation, rustling coming from the room. Then her quivering silhouette in the doorway, obstructing the view of her State Department agent's beaten up face.

"What do you want?" she spat out, ostensibly pugnacious, though the real reason of her vexed demeanour was clear to him as soon as he saw her. "Huh? What more do you want?!"

Vasily stood there, silent and repentant with every fibre of his being but unable to properly express it, and watched as the fire danced in her eyes. He couldn't possibly deny that whatever had happened wasn't his fault, although he never wished for it to be this way. He should've listened from the start, should've done what he was told by that idiot Sviridov - not just for his family's safety but for her as well. However many friends, helpers and minders she might've had at these tournaments, there was no unwavering guarantee any of them could protect her at all times. That one, in the room, certainly couldn't as he didn't even manage to protect himself.

"What did they do?" he asked, cautiously looking over her shoulder but Beth didn't move.

"Like you don't fucking know." Her voice was openly trembling by then but she didn't break and tried to disguise it with a condescending scoff. Borgov's face, however, remained unchanged, indicating that he had, in fact, no idea, and she faltered. "I don't-" She exhaled shakily. "I just walked into the hall and he was there all bloodied, and-" She stumbled again, not only exasperated but clearly frightened, gesturing in the direction of the bed where some essential medical supplies lay scattered. "I don't know how to do any of this stuff!"

Only then did he notice that her elegant fingers were covered in blood. The agent wasn't dying, of course, and had no visible injuries on his body but a broken nose or some knocked out teeth could be tricky too.

"Can I come in?" Beth just nodded in agreement, presumably seeing no other option since her peculiar-looking friend wasn't there yet, and he entered the room, closing the door tightly behind him. The man from the State Department was sat on the bed, holding a reddened towel up to his nose, and watched Vasily, bleary-eyed from the damage but still suspicious, as he examined him. "There's not much I can do. He needs stitches. Have you called the doctor?"

She shook her head but stayed silent: it was taking her a lot of strength not to give in to her conflicting emotions.

"She doesn't know German..." the agent murmured from under the towel. Borgov wanted to ask why he didn't do it himself but decided not to, given that the man could've been concussed, and instead dialled the number to call reception. His own German was even worse than his English but it was enough to get the point across. "Did you send them?.. To- change the pills?.."

Vasily looked at the agent, then at Beth, taken aback by the mention of the pills. The fact that it could be the possible concussion speaking couldn't be ruled out entirely but he used the word "change", meaning that she did bring some sort of drugs with her. The jaded Soviet grandmaster narrowed his eyes slightly and the young American prodigy pursed her lips, looking away, chastened. Once again, he wanted to ask if she had actually taken them, if she had fallen victim to her inexhaustible craving, but, once again, decided not to. His own values and ideas notwithstanding, he made a decision to help and couldn't back down, and chiding her would waste time. Besides, she was already barely holding without him shaking her around.

"What's your name?" He turned to the agent once more, approaching the bed where he sat. The man didn't reply, seemingly careful not to reveal anything that could potentially endanger him in the future as he still didn't believe that a Soviet chess player didn't have any meaningful connections with government people and the KGB. Of course. How American of him. "They don't listen to me. But even if they did, I would never compromise Miss Harmon's health."

He could feel her scorching gaze on him again when he settled on the bed and started rummaging through the first aid kit in search of some hydrogen peroxide.

_"Elizabeth,_

After a moment's consideration, Vasily crossed that word out too and put down his pen. He rarely smoked and hardly ever allowed himself to do it in the apartment as Galina strongly disliked the smell of cigarettes but still kept a sort of emergency pack and an ashtray in his study. A spark from a lighter briefly illuminated his dimly lit nest.

Once they patched the agent up - Mr Booth his name was, though it was the subject of his surveillance who disclosed his identity and not him - Benny Watts finally joined them at the hotel and came to check on his friend and her minder. Even though the opportunity to explain his unusual behaviour at the restaurant was given up in favour of helping a man he, strictly speaking, didn't know, Borgov was still grateful to Luchenko for holding the cowboy genius up at least for that long. He couldn't imagine it was easy, considering the state Beth was in when she left. The ambulance arrived exceptionally quickly, especially compared to Russia, and although the case wasn't exactly urgent, Mr Booth received the much-needed help. All was well. Beth was safe in the arms of her friend. He could leave.

As Vasily made his way quietly to the door and walked out into the hall, a small hand grabbed his fingers on the way and he thought he was going to melt on the spot. In spite of his own discordant feelings fighting inside of him and throwing themselves onto his unbreakable shell in hopes of projecting onto his face even fleetingly, he did his best to appear unperturbed and turned to face Beth. Her own expression, for the first time in their whole acquaintance, was indiscernible to him. She looked shaken and impertinent, and ready to punch him in the face, and unimaginably tired, and teary-eyed - all at the same time but all to an insignificant degree, as if she was trying to poke fun at his own defensive strategies, which she undoubtedly decoded a long time ago. Or maybe he just liked to think she did. For some reason, being seen by Elizabeth Harmon didn't scare him as much anymore.

"Forgive me... for this." Borgov gestured around the hall with his empty hand in his usual reserved manner, hoping she would understand what he meant exactly. "I'm going to go now."

Ignoring his words and intentions, Beth made two unsteady steps closer and hugged him. It seemed entirely impossible not to break out of his armour, not to grow and spread his tendrils, ravenous for her fire and life, enveloping her completely, but he managed to stay a regular man. A few moments later he even reciprocated and wrapped his arms gently around her. His own heart betrayed him, beating so loud that she most definitely heard it, but he didn't say anything and just closed his eyes. When he hugged her like that - almost like that - in Moscow, he turned his face away, even though his arms pulled her closer than he ever anticipated. Now he moved his head slightly to the side, to her, desperate both to feel her warmth and to keep his composure. Her flushed cheek was so close to his that her lips were almost touching his face. He would probably crumble if they did. Perhaps, a small part of him wanted them to. Would it hurt anyone if succumbed to his impulse?

"If you were going to say what I think you were going to say... then don't say it. Because I don't think I'll be able to live with myself if you do." She sighed soundlessly but he felt her breath get under the collar of his shirt. "And if you were ever- just even remotely curious... then yes."

Yes. Yes, it would. He was right and wrong at the same time: wrong for thinking that following up on his orders immediately and unquestioningly would've changed anything for the better and right for not actually doing it. Beth Hamon was by far the most difficult puzzle he had ever tried his hand at solving, not necessarily for the lack of important pieces but because of the way holding those pieces made him feel. All her life she tried to convince herself that being independent, unhampered by the burden of attachment to other people, was the only way to be but it never quite worked as it was never true in the first place. He could feel that she wanted to trust him but couldn't allow herself to step into his world - not only for the scandal of it but because she was too terrified of fully letting her guard down in his presence. He was, after all, just another man - an older man, a married man, a man with a child - and he could hurt her in a way that would push onto her mother's path. He felt like a bastard for even trying to pursue her to save his family, save his own skin. It didn't matter if his heart was in it now. She needed someone completely unencumbered, ready and earnest, someone willing to give her their heart without asking for anything in return, someone who will hold her through her every attempt to hurt herself. Maybe, in some other universe, he could take that place but here, now, with the whole world watching and judging them and with the KGB breathing down his neck, he could only step away.

_"Beth,_

"What are you doing here?" Galina covered her mouth elegantly as she yawned. "Three in the morning, Vasily, really?"

"Couldn't sleep." Borgov just shrugged, thinking that he probably should've heard her approaching and hidden the cigarette but instantly realising that it wouldn't have worked anyway since he didn't open the window.

"Ugh, and smoking too." With a displeased grimace, she walked up to the table and sat on the edge beside her husband, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and putting it out on the ashtray.

"Hey," he objected quietly, careful not to wake up Seryozha, but she ignored him and chucked the pack into an opened drawer.

"You'll thank me." A sleepy smile curving the corners of her mouth ever so slightly upwards, Galina leaned in closer to the table and examined the beginning of his letter. "I see you're eloquent as always."

"It's a draft." Vasily narrowed his eyes sceptically but not actually wanting to bite back as he knew that she wasn't genuinely mocking him. "Epistolary genre isn't exactly my forte."

"We both know that's not the reason."

He hadn't spoken to Beth since that evening, even though the tournament lasted for another five days. He couldn't tell if it was the right decision but judging by the fact that she wasn't even in Siegen on the last day, when the USSR team triumphed for the tenth time in succession with six wins and four draws, he suspected that she wasn't too eager to talk to him either. Yet, three months after the olympiad he still returned to that moment in his memories. Her hands on his shoulders, her face so close to his, her gentle but stern warning. Their dance. Damn, some nights he couldn't even sleep. It's been a while since he felt that foolish.

"Alright, move over." Galina pushed his shoulder softly but firmly at the same time, signalling him to free the chair for her.

"What on earth for?" Vasily, surprised but obedient nonetheless, rose up from the table so that his wife could take his place.

"You're never going to write this letter yourself and it pains me to see you carry this weight around on your shoulders. Do you think I never noticed those American magazines in your study? Or the fact that you spend more time on the balcony than in your bed at night?"

"Galya-"

"Don't "Galya" me." She tilted her head to the side but her expression of quiet concern remained. "I'm aware that I'm probably supposed to warn you about her, tell you she's too young and all that and turn you away but, then again, you could've done the same to me and you chose not to, no matter what this country had to say about it. Because it's what we do - we help each other. So..." She gestured to the other side of the table so that he would bring another chair and sit opposite her. "You're going to tell me how you feel in the most vivid detail you're capable of and I'm going to help you put it into words."


	9. the icelandic reunion (1972) I

"I'm sorry if this takes you by surprise as, I imagine, Lev Borisovich would like to speak to you first and he has a tendency to get into detail about things he's passionate about. It feels strange to invade someone else's conversation, and without a proper introduction, too, so I can only hope that you'll forgive me for my lack of etiquette given up in favour of prudence - it's not often I get to write proper letters, let alone like this. I've never considered myself a gifted public speaker, so one would think it would be easier to write, especially when you have enough time to meticulously study both sides of the argument and think through every word, and yet I find myself lost after every sentence, which seems to be the case for every time I tried to convey my thoughts to you before. For that reason only, I'm afraid I had to engage another spectator, my wife, though I can assure you that she will remain impartial. I hope someday I can tell you more about her as she truly is a wonderful human being, which I'm sure you'll agree with, but the circumstances prevent me from doing so at the moment. There are, unfortunately, many complications, most of which are my fault, that are dangerous and impossible to ignore for both our sakes, so even now it wouldn't be entirely appropriate for me to speak freely and tell you about the things that torment me since our last meeting. You are, however, young, sharp and bright, Miss Harmon, and thus, whether this letter ends up being concise at all or not, I don't doubt your ability to grasp whatever meaning it may have.

If nothing else, allow me to congratulate you on your crushing success in Palma de Mallorca and qualifying for the Candidates, although it's impossible to know when this message will reach you, so I apologise if my felicitations are outdated. Despite your own beliefs on the matter, I never saw you as anything less than a wonder. Your personal obstacles notwithstanding, your capability of absorbing new material, evaluating your opponent's chances on the spot and channelling your emotionality into perfecting your technique is more than worthy of admiration. Admittedly, at first, I was somewhat sceptical about your seeing a classical sport through the lens of modernity but learning about your progress in the world of competitive playing has taught me to look at you differently as well. I know that your survival instinct had sharpened without your consent but it is commendable nonetheless, and my only hope is that it serves you well in the future and that your mind is gentle to you. Your talent is undeniable and it would be a shame to continue overlooking it for your convictions and deficiencies but I want you to know that this is not condemnation. I'm aware that addiction can be relentless, particularly paired with isolation, but whatever happens on the checkered board that is your life, it doesn't have to be a solitary game. There are people in the world who love you, to whom you matter more than you convince yourself you ever could, and it will always be that way. Forgive me the straightforward and, perhaps, foolish admission but I await our match with great impatience. Regardless of the outcome, I know that fighting you for the title will be the apogee of my career and I'm looking forward to it, no matter what or who might stand in the way.

But I'm going to stop now before I say something entirely irresponsible. I apologise for taking so much of your time with this letter and for the distress I brought upon you in Siegen by, possibly, misleading you on certain occasions. My only wish is for you to not get set back by things that are beyond your control, while I will do whatever is in my power to make sure those hurdles aren't in the way anymore. Best of luck at the Candidates - although it's not really the question of luck, is it?"

"Shit, cracker." Jolene exhaled with a small chuckle and shook her head slowly before turning to look at Beth. "That's a lot to take in after what you just told me."

Borgov's short letter, sneakily hidden between the pages of the one sent to her by Luchenko - presumably because their existing correspondence wasn't as suspicious by Mr Booth's standards anymore - was supposed to reach Beth Harmon back in December but travelled a lot during the holidays, as did she after the olympiad, so she only managed to get her hands on it several months later, in April. Not that reading it earlier would've changed anything. Before the Interzonal there was an exhibition game against Wikström, that Swede whose play rattled her so much at the Open in Toronto, which was an inexcusably close call and could've not exactly damaged her career but spoiled the process of climbing the ladder to the title of World Champion significantly. Her record had to be impeccable now and it pressed her closer to the ground with each passing day. She was getting better and better at dealing with addiction - both of them - at refusing herself the luxury of losing her mind in the haze in hopes of forgetting about her responsibilities even for a short period of time, but it didn't mean the hunger wasn't there anymore. Talking to Mr Bradley who still had his tiny pharmacy near her house in Lexington and asking him to send her away at the door if she were to come looking for the pills again was, perhaps, one of the most embarrassing things she'd ever done but she thought it appropriate, considering that the Candidates Tournament was steadily approaching. She was going to play the Soviets again, one of whom once held the title she wanted to earn so badly. She was also most likely going to be alone there since Benny had his own tournaments to attend and she hadn't heard from Townes in a while, and the feeling was somehow ever more confining. There were days when she would wake up with an honest desire to study and get ready for the tournament; there were nights when she would choke on her own buzzing thoughts, crammed in her head to the point of bursting and moving slowly to different parts of her body, her throat, making her forget to breathe in. The fact that her sleeping patterns became riddled with bitemarks left by nightmares, her mind sore and pulsing, only worsened her mental state, but she tried not to think about it too much, afraid of discovering more details linking her to her birthmother. That was when Jolene finally came to visit, bringing more light and serenity into her life than she thought was possible for a good long while.

Talking to her, despite the long periods of time when they didn't see each other, felt freeing in a way Beth couldn't describe. Maybe it was silly but she really thought Jolene and her shared an almost familial connection and understood each other like no one else could. Although she was still a little cautious when it came to taking off her masks in front of the person she considered her best friend, after seemingly a full day of talking and talking and talking she felt more at ease and admitted her special interest towards a certain Russian player. To her surprise, Jolene realised it was Borgov a lot faster than she, herself, ever could. She expected judgment, of course, what's with him being not only older and married but, technically speaking, an enemy as well, and so, before her "big sister" could express her opinions on the matter, rushed to tell everything about him that she knew and even disclosed the letter. Perhaps, she was more afraid of Jolene misunderstanding his intentions rather than her own and that alone was too difficult to think about.

"Yeah..." Beth sighed, involuntarily mirroring her friend. "I've read it a couple of times by now but it's not like it gives me anything."

"Anything?" Jolene raised her eyebrows sceptically. "Baby, he opened like a book, what more do you need?"

"What do you mean?" The young oblivious grandmaster, on the contrary, furrowed her brow.

"I mean that you can be a little dim for a person who's supposed to be a genius." Her friend just laughed, though without any malicious notes in her voice. "Look," she moved closer and traced a few sentences in the letter with her finger, "he practically told you he's in love with you and, I'm pretty sure, ready to give you the title. Is that not anything? _"Fighting you will be the apogee of my career"?_ This stuff's proper victorian, you can't make this up." 

At the mention of love, that small big word that usually meant so much to other people, something momentarily stung in the area where her heart was and she almost winced but contained it. 

"I don't want him to give the title. I want to earn it, myself."

"Well, that's on you." Jolene just shrugged, a simple, ostensibly offhanded movement of her shoulders, but, once again, with nothing negative behind it. "I'm just telling you what I'm seeing. And what I'm seeing is a dirty old man-" 

"Jolene-"

"Okay, okay, just... an old man- And you can't deny that! I'm sorry but you can't." She smiled, slightly teasingly, and tilted her head to the side. "I'm seeing a desperate man trying to let you know he didn't mean that... sabotage or whatever it was to happen without actually saying it. Now, I don't really know the reason for this secrecy but I can probably guess. Read a paper, Beth: that America vs Russia shit's everywhere. You're a public figure, whether you like it or not, you travel a lot, you meet all these people..." She stopped in her tracks for a couple of seconds and narrowed her eyes a bit, contemplating. "What did you say that State Department guy told you on the plane?" 

"Mr Booth?" A nod. "Not to speak with anyone, mostly. No going out without him, no talking to anyone outside my room, no drinking... He thought the Russians were going to send me a signal but never told me what to look out for. Also they didn't try, so..." 

"Yeah, that's it." Jolene nodded again, suddenly resolute. "I'm guessing this is your signal. Or at least as close as it's gonna get to one. I mean, I don't know the guy but he sounds like he wants out."

"Out of what, chess? Russia? No, he doesn't- He has a family, he wouldn't just leave them there." Beth shook her head and pointed at the letter again. "See? He even mentioned his wife. Just to drive it fucking home..."

"Again, Beth, I'm just telling you what I'm seeing." With a soft content sigh the woman moved a little closer to rest her head on her friend's shoulder. "Did you write anything back?"

"Not a thing." Beth pressed her lips together, then bit down on her lower one, feeling the guilt slowly creeping up on her. "I haven't even replied to Luchenko yet. I just... don't know what to say to all of them."

"Good. Keep 'em on their toes."

"Real helpful, thanks."

"Why not though?" Jolene lifted her head up again with an earnestly inquiring expression on her face. "Listen, if you really want to know my opinion and will actually take it into account, I think you should just tell them to fuck off for now. Respectfully." She laughed quietly and Beth couldn't help but smile faintly with her. "You've already got so much going on right now. That Candidates thing alone seems like hell to get ready for - and after that, who knows? They won't leave you alone, that's for sure." She gently intertwined their fingers as the corners of her lips curled up with a tinge of wistfulness. "For the record, I don't think you're wasted. I can see you're holding on and it's impressive, honestly. I want you to keep it that way, I want you to be happy with whoever you are and whatever you do, but you're gonna have to take a breather from time to time for that to happen. If you really want that title, you gotta concentrate on one thing at a time. And hey, I get it: you're in love and it's hard to listen to other people when they tell you to take it easy for a while. But you'll thank me in the long run, trust me. No man's heart is worth your own."

Beth came back to Canada - Vancouver this time - in May, determined to quickly and safely make her way to the top of the leader board. Jolene's advice was good, constructive, and for a time it filled her with persistence she maybe lacked during the Interzonal and after that but only for a time. However, even though she kept involuntarily returning to Toronto, Buenos Aires and Siegen in her mind, it was enough to focus on training. In a way, it was her only solace with the alternative being driving herself crazy with conspiracy theories, turning her entire room upside down in search of hidden cameras and wires, looking around everywhere she went, afraid of meeting Cleo or those KGB agents again. She tried to listen to Mr Booth more now that she'd actually seen that he wasn't a paranoic by trade. She was also, apart from her minder, completely alone and had no one to help her go over games before the real matches. _Chess Review_ sent a different journalist to cover the tournament instead of Townes because he was busy, Benny was busy, the omnipresent twins were busy, even Luchenko didn't come with the Soviets - she was clandestinely grateful for that last one as she probably wouldn't have been able to look him in the eyes after ignoring his letter for so long. Her own brain was busy, though that was an oppressive constant.

It didn't stop her though. Despite starting her first game as Black, Beth defeated the confounded Russian comfortably, thus beginning an exquisite string of six consecutive wins filled to the brim with genius moves and, perhaps, only slightly tinted by her opponent's pointless adjournment during the fifth game. There was no reason to continue the fight any longer as her advantage was more than evident, so the quarter-finals ended earlier than she anticipated. A part of her felt sorry for the man, seeing that his scowling chaperones weren't particularly ecstatic about the results, but an even bigger part of her was invigorated by the outcome. She had to draw the attention away from her, frankly, substandard performance at the olympiad and she did so with regal poise. No one needed to know exactly how much stress she was under.

Coming to Denver in the beginning of July was, by all means, a fateful contrast. Still high from her triumph over the Soviet player, Beth tried her best to ground herself by reading about the previous successes of the Danish grandmaster whom she was going to play next. It was hard, however, to ignore the level of attention that was on her, the praise some reporters sang her in various chess magazines or even regular dailies. The public in Moscow made her feel like a sensation but there, in America, comparatively not even that far from Kentucky, completely destroying her adversary in the span of some three weeks she caused an utter maelstrom. A streak of twelve successive wins was unprecedented, chiefly so for a woman of her age. She was simultaneously over the moon and terrified beyond measure. She was photographed everywhere she went, talked about, torn apart, and even though Mr Booth was no longer her only guard, she knew that if it came to it, those men from the car that followed her around the city and waited at the exact corner of the street her windows were facing could easily drag her wherever they wanted. Maybe it was better that she was alone - when Borgov wasn't in her immediate vicinity, the agents weren't as interested in obstructing her as when they played each other.

In August, two months before the finals, Beth only agreed to play at one blitz tournament - where she won, of course, almost as spectacularly - but after that allowed herself to take a break. It seemed insubstantial squeezed in between some of the most important matches in her life but it was vital nonetheless. She even finally plucked up the courage to reply to Lev Borisovich, although didn't expect to receive another letter for some months. Borgov's letter remained unanswered in the drawer of her bedside table, along with that black wooden king she, essentially, stole from the Soviet Chess Federation or whatever it was called. The timing of Harry Beltik's arrival was almost painfully ironic: now that she felt closer to the edge than ever before with the stress of being a proper chess celebrity enfolding her from all sides, she didn't need to be reminded of Morphy's miserable end. Luckily, he was only there to offer himself as an opponent so that she wouldn't have to train alone, although he once admitted not being sure about that last part since she had a thing with Benny. She didn't need to be reminded of her _things_ either but didn't make a scene out of it, graciously accepting an opportunity to spend some time with someone who wasn't interested in her solely because of her career.

Her return to Buenos Aires, once again, caused a stir but this time the responsibility didn't have to be carried by Elizabeth Harmon alone as there was a metric ton's worth of pressure on the Soviet player as well. Perhaps, in a way he had it worse as ex-World Champion but it didn't exactly help Beth overcome her own anxieties. The grandmaster was ruthless. Only allowing her one more consecutive win, he first took the matter into his own hands in the second game and then toyed around with her for three more games after that. She won, eventually, albeit it taking more rounds than in the previous matches, but the process itself knocked her down a peg which was genuinely beneficial and sobering. She didn't even mind that, when they had a chat after their final game, he warned her about letting the success go to her head. Even though she was now an official challenger and demonstrated her advantage over him as a player, Beth politely accepted his advice. After all, the Soviets were always the ones to treat her with the utmost respect, so she didn't even consider the possibility of him looking down on her.

When Harry Beltik appeared on her doorstep once again, holding the new issue of _Chess Review_ with her picture on it up to his face, it was already snowing - as much as it could in Kentucky.

"I can't tell if it's strange or exactly what I should've expected." With a glass of some sweetish red wine in his hand and a smile playing about his lips, Harry sat opposite Beth on the couch.

"Why thank you, that's very humbling." Beth half-smiled sarcastically, trying to ignore the bottle on the table beside them.

"You know what I meant." He narrowed his eyes and took another tasting sip. "It's just... weird to think about that at some point I played the future World Champion."

"Oh yeah?" She raised her eyebrows sceptically. "And how's that for your self-esteem?"

"Well, you beat me, so not doing wonders per se..." They both laughed quietly, each reminiscing about different aspects of that game. "But it's an honour, really. Watching you succeed has been... incredible. Not an exaggeration. You truly are a magnificent player, Beth, even if you think I'm not the one to judge."

Feeling her face slowly beginning to flare up from a sudden strike of bashfulness, she gently pushed Harry's leg with her own. "Hey, I've never said that."

"No, I know-" He shook his head, sheepish. "I just meant that it might not sound as significant compared to the things people like Luchenko and Botvinnik said about you-" He sighed heavily. "That was meant to be a compliment."

"You really suck at those, huh?"

They both laughed again, a bit louder, eager to shake the awkwardness, but the pause hung solidly in the air between them. Beth could tell that Harry was silently considering something, as if weighing all the pros and cons, and secretly hoped he wasn't planning on saying something stupid that he might regret later but judging by the number of times he tried to discreetly glance at her, she was most likely correct about his intentions.

"I'm sorry, this is probably not the Christmas you were hoping for." She pressed her lips together, nonchalantly looking up at her friend. "I can't exactly throw a party right now."

"No, it's perfect." He just shook his head and smiled again. "I'm glad to be here with you."

Beth felt flustered under his intent gaze. They've known each other for years now and he had his opportunities to say these things before, when her head wasn't breaking at the seams from stressing over the upcoming championship match, when her heart wasn't beating for someone else, when she wasn't scared to one day see Alice Harmon's face in the mirror instead of her own. It was probably just the wine loosening up his tongue, nothing else. She couldn't have possibly been immediately so right about him but so oblivious about Vasily.

"Listen, Beth, I'm going to tell you something-"

"Harry-" She protested fleetingly but he didn't stop and only furrowed his brow in determination.

"-and I'd like for you to listen to me because I've already tried doing this before and you didn't let me."

"Have you considered that maybe I did it for a reason?" She fired off before he could actually say anything and instantly regretted it. Harry looked at her dumbfounded and hurt but remained silent. "I meant myself, not you. I just... I don't think I need anyone in my life right now. You've said it yourself - I'm too obsessed with winning, and that can't be- a thing you'd look for in a partner."

"I'm not looking for anything, Beth, I've only ever looked at you." He shrugged uncouthly. "I'm not going to be a dick about this but I want you to just consider it..."

A seed of doubt fell into the ploughed earth that was her mind and Beth felt its bitter taste on her tongue. She tried to consider it, really. It's not like she wanted to spend all of her days completely alone, only visited by her bright and successful friends and left by them on the same night. And Harry was nice. He was close, free, young, reliable, even charming. He knew what chess meant for her and wouldn't intercept her on her way to the top for the sake of some ridiculous perfect American family values. Hell, he was in love with her already, she didn't even need to try and prove herself worthy of his affection. He could care for her... But Jolene was right: even if she needed support, welcoming someone into her life was too big of a decision to make just for that or out of courtesy. Besides, it wouldn't have been fair to Harry and he would understand it in the future, when it's too late and too painful to smile politely, do a sidestep and go their respective ways as if nothing had happened.

"I've considered it," she began cautiously. "And I'm sincerely grateful for everything that you've done for me. There really is no other way for me to express it more earnestly, so you're just gonna have to believe me... But I really don't think it's the right thing to do." She felt her heart contract laboriously. "You'll regret having me in your life. I know it might not seem that way right now because of the image of me as this broken genius you've created in your head but it will happen. You'll get tired of my temper or of the fact that chess will always be more important for me than you. Or both. Or I'll go crazy like Morphy. Take your pick, honestly..." She snickered tartly. "The point is, something will happen and you'll want to free yourself from me. It will break my heart and it might break yours too. Do you want that?"

A drawn-out pause.

"No, I don't," Harry murmured, still dissenting but realistic enough to see above his rust-coloured glasses.

"I don't either." Beth moved a little closer and carefully took his hand in hers. "I really like you, Harry. I really, really do. And I don't want to lose you because you don't like me anymore."

They hugged. They talked for a while longer. She reminded him the way to the guest bedroom and he eventually went to bed, leaving the bottle of wine on the coffee table unfinished. She decided to throw it out just in case a wild impulse wakes her up in the middle of the night. Laying in her own bed, alone and despondent, Beth instinctively reached into the drawer of her bedside table and took out the solitary sheet of paper Borgov sent her almost an entire year ago in hopes of suddenly discovering some hidden advice she might've missed on her previous readings but there was nothing she hadn't already seen before. Maybe he wanted her to wait for something. Maybe he politely asked her to find someone else and move on. Maybe Jolene was right about this too and it really was a signal of some kind. It really would've helped if he wasn't forced to be cryptic and could just say whatever was on his mind - but, then again, he did try to do it in Siegen, when no one was around, and she stopped him the same way she stopped Harry. It seemed she was destined to burn all the bridges before they had even been built.

As her eyelids began gradually growing heavier, Beth tucked the letter back into the drawer, next to his king.


	10. the icelandic reunion (1972) II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we've arrived at the last stop in our clownmobile ride! it's been such a pleasure to write for this fandom, especially considering that i've never written anything this long, neither in english nor even in russian, and it's just been really fun to challenge myself this way. i'm honestly at a loss for words over the amount of support i've received for this story and can't possibly thank every one of you enough for stopping by and taking the time to read it!  
> while i don't have any solid ideas just yet, i hope to come up with something else because letting go of these precious fools doesn't seem like an option at the moment. if you, by any chance, have any prompts, questions about russian things or just want to chat, you can find me on tumblr at goulds where i spend, frankly, a ridiculous amount of time screaming about my hyperfixations.  
> and for now, i really hope you enjoy this last chapter!

A short buxom woman with her hair put up in a high and painfully tight bun carefully but urgently made her way through the gradually expanding crowds in the Laugardalshöll arena. Holding a clipboard close to her chest as if it was a national treasure even though the notes attached to it contained nothing of importance to the press, she looked around intently but simultaneously trying not to attract any journalist's attention with her anxious demeanour. It took her about twenty minutes to quickly survey the first floor one more time before she gave up and returned to the more or less quiet room where various organisers were conversing with the Soviets and some Americans. As soon as she walked in, making all the heads turn inquiringly in her direction, she almost felt her knees give out from the sudden recognition.

"I can't find her," she admitted with a thick northern-sounding accent and a slight nervous tremble in her voice. "I have looked everywhere but there are only reporters. They would not have let her pass if she was still in the lobby."

"Shit," Benny muttered under his breath, scowling. "How did you even manage to lose her?"

"I'd like to see you try not doing it, cowboy." Townes just narrowed his eyes at him, good-natured but sceptical nonetheless. "It's a bloodbath out there - _and I'm a journalist_."

"Well, you better enjoy it for now." The baby-faced genius put a hand on his shoulder with an almost patronising smirk. "Cause if they stomp her to death or rip her to shreds, it probably gonna be your fault."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen..." Herr Faulstich, the arbiter, stepped in between them, sensing the air of hostility seeping from under Benny Watts' hat, and smiled a reserved civil smile. "No need for fighting. We're in the neutral zone, remember?"

A couple of other organisers joined the woman with the clipboard and calmly exited the room planning to split up and look for the missing American player again as the time to start the first game of the match was rapidly approaching. Those present in the room briefly returned to whatever they were discussing before but instantly quieted down again when Vasily Borgov, that fearsome Soviet player whose title was supposed to be the main prize and whose very heart was on the scales because of it, stood up from his chair in the corner, thus abruptly ending the conversation with his seconds, and wordlessly made his way towards the door.

Reading about her for nearly two years, getting in shape before the main battle, anticipating and fearing it at the same time, Vasily was quite certain he was going to collapse as soon as he sees Elizabeth Harmon for the first time since the 19th Chess Olympiad in Siegen. However, when he arrived in Reykjavik and dealt with the more commercial part of the match alone, he realised that seeing her before the actual game wasn't going to be easy. It was like she deliberately avoided him. She never answered his letter - for which he didn't blame her, although a part of him hoped it would happen at some point until the very last day. The only way for him to know that she was at least safe and alive during her break prior to the match was the fact that she continued her correspondence with Lev. Asking Luchenko to tell him about her, to disclose the contents of her letters was out of the question, but beneath all the layers of silk, velvet and cashmere the older gentleman hid a heart of gold and for that reason alone passed on some details from time to time without making a big deal out of it. Borgov never openly showed his interest, gratitude or how much it meant for him, impassive and closed-off as ever, but they both silently knew and it was enough.

It was hard to imagine the level of pressure she was under with all those reporters and fans following her around everywhere and the worst thing was the feeling of utter uselessness as he couldn't exactly do anything about it - not in the last months at least. Inquiring after the agents would've pushed him into the austerely dim spotlight to be questioned and he couldn't allow that, not now. It was Galina who came up with the absolutely mad idea to flee the union so that the KGB would leave them alone at last and it took him much consideration before he finally agreed - if not for himself but for his family's safety. It took even more time and careful planning to be able to choose a suitable destination. They'd arranged everything they could arrange within the country's borders before the match came about but still couldn't act on it yet as the championship attracted a lot of publicity to him as a player. He wasn't going to give his title away without putting up a proper fight, of course, but couldn't help but feel that losing was advantageous in the grand scheme of things. Without the crown on his head, he would have a brief window of opportunity to make his exit from the chess scene and out of the USSR before the government could sink its teeth deep into his neck. That is to say they would be interested in him at all. However, descending from the pedestal meant not only the possible end of his chess career but the definite acceleration of Beth's, and although she clearly wanted to become World Champion, the stress of being one would be unrelenting.

Travelling through the miraculously empty corridors reserved for the staff and various athletes and performers, Vasily finally reached the back doors and went out into the relatively small parking lot. While seemingly everyone was storming the main gates and lobby, that part of the territory was almost entirely barren, save only for a few unoccupied cars. He didn't know why his feet carried him here specifically but there must've been a reason.

It wasn't cold in July, even in Iceland - a country the name of which suggested everlasting frigidity - but it certainly wasn't pleasantly warm either, making Beth feel prudent for choosing a soft angora cardigan over a light blouse or a sundress that she would usually wear in America at this time of year. She sat on a short flight of stairs, hiding from everyone who might've spotted her from the back doors behind an equally short concrete wall, and yet the wind still got to her, sticking its calloused icy fingers under her clothes and rendering her perfect hair a complete mess. She tried not to stress over her appearance just yet, too preoccupied with her own shaking hands. Thankfully, the tremors weren't a regular occurrence or at least regular enough to see it as another omen of a bleak future but they definitely added a cruelly fine touch to her whole state. God, she wanted a drink.

The last several months before the championship were a blur. Technically, Beth Harmon did have a deserved break and didn't attend any huge important tournaments but it didn't mean she didn't do anything at all. She gave interviews, did photoshoots, went to universities and various chess clubs around the States, even appeared on a talk show - all that within some six months with that short and surprisingly boring game with the president being, of course, the crown jewel. She was only ever allowed to admit that exhaustion was getting to her when she was alone, otherwise her newfound admirers would've turned on her and called her names she didn't want to be called. The fact that Harry became more distant after that talk they had on Christmas obviously didn't help. Beth's confidence in her own autonomy began slowly oscillating between rigid defiance and crippling loneliness. On one hand, she still had support from Jolene, from Benny, from Townes, even from Luchenko, albeit unconventionally, but on the other - the pills were always closer. Admittedly, subduing her craving was much easier now than, say, two years ago and even she couldn't disregard her progress but she was still afraid.

A sudden gust of wind hit Beth in the face just as she inhaled and she frowned, first from the sensation itself, then - at the familiar smell of sharp cologne. Vasily Borgov. More than enough time had passed for a pretty young thing like her to move on, distracted by another flight of fancy, but she didn't. No matter how strongly she wished to rid herself of thoughts of him, her current position firmly prevented her from doing so. For a while, she hoped her affection had withered as she was too engaged in beating other people, and yet as the time came to go to Reykjavik for the so-called match of the century, she found herself dreading not only playing him but meeting him at all. Maybe that was partially why she intentionally lost Townes in the crowd and hid here. She just couldn't bear the idea of coming to the stage, sitting down at her side of the table and shaking his hand as if nothing had happened. And did anything happen? Or did she just imagine everything? All the details, secret glances, impermissible touches, injudicious thoughts - all the sides of him she'd seen under his carefully constructed disguise?

"It's time, Beth."

At first, she didn't even register that the voice didn't come from her own mind but, in fact, from a real, tangible person and just sat there with her shoulder pressed to the concrete wall and her ears open to the tiniest of sounds. The figure stood unmoving, obscured by the insubstantial partition, but she felt its presence with her entire being. No, the voice was real and the person it belonged to was too.

"Is it?" Beth tried her best to appear insouciant as she slowly rose up from the stairs but the very sight of him sent dull pain echoing behind her ribs.

"They've been searching for you for a while now," Vasily confirmed plainly. "You're friends are worried about you."

Feeling the right words get stuck in her throat one by one and nearly choking on them, she could only bring herself to nod lightly and smile, so they stood there in silence for several long moments. It seemed awkward in the beginning but then the passing of seconds slowed down to the point when it was only them and nothing else around. Her face still burned under his intent gaze just the same as before but she stared back.

"How are you, Beth?"

Him addressing her by name seemed indelicate after almost two years of not addressing her at all.

"Well, haven't you heard?" Beth tried smiling again but it came out ungainly and lopsided. She still had every right to be bold though: after all, she did destroy everyone in her way and there was no reason to be shy about it.

"I have." Borgov's eyebrows twitched ever so slightly as he nodded in agreement. "You've made significant progress. Reading about your games has been... enlightening. The way you played your knight in the second game in Canada was beautiful."

Though his choice of words was endearing in the same way as a schoolboy reciting a poem from the stage for the first time would be, she wondered momentarily what he really meant by that. The fact that he remembered specific moves from her games... Was she drawing over the lines again or did it genuinely mean something that she was supposed to see? Perhaps, he was just trying to psych her out, soften her up before the start of the match. If only Jolene was here to point her in the right direction.

"How come we always meet in cold places?" Beth moved a step closer and Vasily tucked his hands into his pockets, seemingly defensive.

"Always?"

"Almost always." She shrugged, frozen in place and playing with her fingers behind her back, and then slowly made another half-step.

"Maybe because we're cold people," he mused, a smile beginning to form in the corner of his mouth but instantly contained.

"Do you really believe that?"

He was silent for a few seconds, contemplating something, doubting, with an only barely visible shade of fondness tinting the severe blue. "No."

"So maybe it's the opposite. I'm hot-headed and..." She didn't finish but hoped he was sharp enough to do it for her. Instead, she moved another couple of inches closer. "I'm drawn to them because it helps to keep the balance."

"Are you certain you need them? You seem to keep the balance well yourself."

She looked at him. His eyes. His gradually greying hair, unmoving even under the pressure of Icelandic winds. His eyes. His humble yet picture-perfect suit. His eyes. His ridiculously gaudy tie with golden stripes. What on God's green earth had possessed him to buy it? His eyes again. Did he decide to wear that particular one to distract her from the game? The icy blue pierced right through her phantom shell. If she beats him in the end, their meeting here will probably be the last one for a long while, maybe even forever.  
With her fingers assertively gripping his gilded noose, Beth pulled him closer in impatient desperation, pressing her starved lips to his, begging to accept her as she was, as she had been, as she will always be, and in a moment Borgov was a man undone. As she physically felt the pieces of his armour sliding off, she counted the beats of her own heart. If she were to be entirely honest with herself, she didn't even need him to reciprocate immediately - she deprived herself of this sensation for such a long time that the idyllic details weren't as significant anymore. The most important thing was for him to understand.

It took Vasily all of five seconds to come to his senses and slowly wrap his arm around her waist with the other resting gently on her cheek. Her skin beginning to melt in places under his fiery touch, Beth suddenly realised that the wind actually got to her and she hadn't fully noticed it without this contrast. She felt hungry for his warmth and clung to him, to his shoulders, afraid of being let go. Their unsteady breathing caught up on them an eternity later but they just stared at each other, half in disbelief, half intoxicated by each other's closeness. All of her emotions swarmed inside her like a living hive and she felt simultaneously frantic and completely numb but before Vasily decided that this whole thing was a mistake and stepped away, she jumped up and kissed him again and again _and again,_ completely insatiable.

"We need to go-" he murmured into her lips in Russian, still a little dazed, reluctantly trying to pull away. "They'll come looking for you-"

Being realistic, even for the sake of her own good name, seemed absolutely intolerable and Beth briefly considered choosing disobedience instead but forced herself to remember who they are and where they were. Borgov was still looking at her - _and why wouldn't he?_ \- so she opted for an attempt at domesticity. Taking the demonstrative handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, she started carefully wiping her own lipstick off of his lips.

"I think I'm in love with you." Her voice sounded a little hoarse cutting through the somewhat awkward silence but she didn't let it stop her - she simply couldn't let it stop her. "I really thought I've lucked out on that and moved on but, turns out, it didn't go away. Now, you can do whatever you want with this information but if you're going to reject me, at least make it nice."

All of a sudden Beth felt too scared to even look up. Despite her own unconvincing restraint, she didn't actually want to be rejected - not now that she held out her heart for him to measure, weigh and decide whether he should crush it or keep it safe in his hands. At the same time, however, if he returned her affection, she wouldn't know what to do next. Given their critical positions on the board, they couldn't just come out of the match holding hands and smiling. The prospect of the future being uncertain made her nauseous with anxiety again.

"Come," he said simply, a characteristically faint smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, still weak from being kissed. "It's cold." His duty as a serious competitive player and the holder of the title suggested that he needed to remind her of the audience waiting inside but it seemed he didn't care about them anymore.

As Vasily Borgov guided Beth Harmon through the empty corridor and to the area behind the velvet curtain, ignoring his befuddled seconds and equally perplexed Americans, they only looked at each other once before separating and walking out on the stage from opposite sides. The audience met them with thunderous applause, flashes and clicks as they silently made their way to the table, meeting again with only the board between them and shaking hands solemnly. Beth was going to play White, which already gave her a slight advantage, but she knew that Vasily wasn't going to hand her the victory without putting up a genuine fight. When the noise around them finally subsided, he pushed down the button on the clock.


End file.
